


spire of the dragon

by Theatrhythm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Felileth Week (Fire Emblem), Gen, Inspired by Tangled (2010), no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25264324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theatrhythm/pseuds/Theatrhythm
Summary: He had, perhaps unwittingly, stumbled upon a large, circular enclave, framed protectively by rocky cliffs, cutting a jagged skyline that extended hundreds of feet. The perimeter of the grassy field of wildflowers boasted lush groves of trees, overfull with fruit, plump and gleaming. A pond connected to a towering waterfall, clear and sparkling in the sun.And in the very center of the enclosure was an ivory tower - a blinding beacon - at least several stories high.It looked like paradise. A place from one of Ingrid's ridiculous stories.Felix tore his eyes from the top of the tower.And promptly came face-to-face with piercing blue eyes.Started for Felileth Week 2020, Day 3 Prompt: Fairytale AU.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & My Unit | Byleth, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 35
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooooo! This is my first attempt at dipping my toes into the Three Houses fandom, and what better way than during Felileth week? It's somewhat inspired by Tangled to fit the Fairytale prompt, though some aspects of it have been heavily altered, so expect some marked differences. It'll definitely extend past this week, though!
> 
> I haven't written in nearly two years, so hopefully I can get into the groove for this. I swear I have a basic outline mapped out. I swear.

***

_Wake up, you over-lazy fool!_

Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains suspended high, thin beams cracking and stretching through the center-part - overheating the quilt that ensconced the raven-haired girl still curled up, stubbornly, in her four-poster bed.

She stirred, muttering curses beneath her breath.

_Honestly, you'd think after so long you would learn to be a proper human. Why must I be the one to teach you such manners?_

Groaning, she rolled over and kicked off the covers in a single movement, pulled herself up, blinking blearily and squinting at the wall. 

The voice hummed in what seemed like satisfaction; then, silence.

Byleth exhaled through her teeth. "If you're going to boss me around every day, maybe stick around when I'm conscious, too," she murmured, flinging her legs over the side of the mattress and rubbing her eyes, still blurry from oversleep.

The voice, as usual, no longer answered, but she could feel a smug stirring in the back of her mind - as vocal as it was to be, now.

She slowly stood, stretching her aching legs, arms, twisting at the waist until she heard a telltale _crack_ of her back; _that's the stuff._ She threw a look towards the window for a scant view of the day, the buttery golden light a good omen, in her book. "Good enough to hunt, you think?"

Then she paused, pursing her lips. _I'm crazy. I'm a crazy person. Why do I still talk to you? You're a glorified pet in my brain._

The smugness in the back of her mind suddenly turned indignant.

It took minutes to dress, a routine so etched in her she could do it half-conscious - a simple, loose cotton blouse and a no-nonsense leather jerkin, soft and cracked from over-wear, were her staples. Tucking her shirt into pair of practical breeches over thick dark stockings, she pulled on sturdy boots with well-treaded soles, lacing them up smartly. 

Glancing around the room, she spotted her rapier - glinting in the morning light - and fastened it to her belt at her hip with a satisfied hum. Then she eyed her bow, calculating for a moment, before reaching for the polished oak after all, slinging her quiver of iron arrows over her shoulder.

She half-skipped down the few steps leading to the foyer and grabbed an apple from the overflowing bowl on the table ripe with fruit, shoving it in her mouth absently; without pausing to chew, she flung open the door to the main stairwell and made her descent.

Faerghus in springtime wasn't nearly as warm as the fairer regions south, prone more to dewy mornings after heavy rain over sunshine; today had been her lucky day.

Flinging open the door to the outside of the tower, Byleth surveyed the groves surrounding her, and the stream babbling noisily from the pond on the far end of the enclave.

She performed a quick mental check. Pruning and collecting herbs could come later; so could fishing. But morning made for the easiest pickings when it came to hunting, and she did need to check her traps in the small thicket of woods connected to her enclosure.

She was always careful not to ever venture beyond the cavern that separated her little alcove of forestry from the rest of the world.

_You don't know what's out there, kid. Trust me, we're better off right where we are._

The voice in her heart stirred, doubtful as always.

"Oh, shut-"

  
***

"- _up_ , Sylvain, and keep _running_."

The redhead, panting desperately, howled, "I'm _nervous_ and talking _helps_!"

"Idiot," snarled a voice to his right, heaving with exertion, "your voice _carries._ Do you _want_ to lead them right to us?"

The cobblestone streets leading out of Fhirdiad were still slick from the rains the evening prior. Felix focused on the dry patches for his footing, a spotted sun-evaporated path to follow, so as not to slip as Sylvain had already done half a dozen times that morning.

Clacking against his scabbard at his hip, the heirloom felt far more like dead-weight than prize; he hadn't expected the treasure in the crypts beneath Castle Blaiddyd to be something so large and unwieldy. The sword was impossible to hold without underestimating the reach of it - he was, blessedly, tall enough for it to avoid scraping the ground, even while in a breakneck run. 

It was a foolhardy plan, but Miklan had _insisted_ it would be well worth the effort. An ancient relic of the goddess was certain to fetch an exorbitant price in the black markets.

The path winding out of the capital city, carefully paved, eventually broke ground to dust and dirt, with jagged cliffs framing their escape route on either side, but no sooner than they had officially exited the city bounds did the telltale horns of the kingdom guard ring out - a deep and foreboding bellow.

"Shit," muttered Felix, eyeing the distant mountains still hazy on the horizon. Getting to a safe rest stop would take too long with even the most extensive of stamina, and crossing Gautier territory to cross into Sreng, where they were unlikely to be followed, was too great a risk. 

Sylvain seemed to be thinking the same, his own sweaty brows furrowed. "We can't circle back to Galatea and risk pissing off Ingrid, huh," he wheezed.

"Out of the question," snapped Felix.

"We need to split up," said Miklan with a scowl, panting the words between labored breaths. "One towards Gautier - another towards Fraldarius - a third should loop back around the western coast. With any luck, two decoys will draw the kingdom while the third escapes. We can regroup back in Fhirdiad once things settle."

Sylvain's eyes narrowed slightly, a detail that didn't escape Felix's notice. "Great plan, _bro_ , but who's going to be the bait?"

"Well, _you_ make great bait. Your face _is_ naturally untrustworthy."

Sylvain jerked his head towards his brother in clear disbelief. " _Excuse_ me? Have you _looked_ in a mirror lately?"

"What about you, Fraldarius?" growled Miklan, not bothering to shoot him even a sideways glance.

Felix cocked his head slightly to catch Sylvain's eye - he was still wearing that exaggeratedly wounded expression, but, looking at Felix, made an small, imperceptible shake of his head.

"No," said Felix. "I'll take the sword."

That caught Miklan's attention. He tilted his head just slightly, cool gaze meeting Felix's unflinching one. " _Oh?_ " 

"I agree," Sylvain panted, shooting a glance behind him - distantly, they could hear the sound of hooves beating against the pavement, and he grimaced. "Felix is stealthier than the two of us combined. He can lose them even if they pursue."

Miklan pursed his lips, but made no further objection. "Wait until we send word, Fraldarius, once we're safe. I'll head to Gautier."

"See you two on the flipside," Sylvain said cheerfully, though the laxness of his voice was betrayed by the sweat streaming down his temple. With a two-fingered salute, he took off to the right, in the direction of the river separating Fhirdiad and Fraldarius.

Miklan shot one final look of unease at Felix, but tore off to the northeast.

Felix adjusted his route as well. The coastline was far west, past the forests bordering Fhirdiad. 

Sylvain had been right: this route suited him best, with plenty of cover to lose any who might gamble following him. It also meant he could cut away from the dirt road sooner to conceal himself, while Sylvain and Miklan could tread the main road and act as decoys. He darted into the forests as soon as the brush provided enough cover to disappear.

The treetops were thick, also to his advantage - only small shafts of sunlight filtered through the verdant awnings, dappling the vivid greenery in small pale patches, and he kept to shadow. But with flora inevitably came fauna, and too many wayward animals, when spooked, would make his route easy to follow with careless twigs and branches broken in their wake.

Quietly and expertly, he adjusted his gait, treading on the soft grass with light, soundless steps, flitting from mossy boulders and tall pines. 

If he could just make it to higher ground...

His opportunity came when he noticed an assortment of large rocks and boulders, stacked almost unnaturally in a perfect formation for climbing.

Clearly man-made. Another human - someone familiar with this landscape - made this. If they were nearby -

Another horn sounded, this time echoing from the outer edges of the forest.

_Fuck._

He had no time to question it, and leaped from boulder to boulder, to find himself faced not with a path to elevated ground, but a long, narrow cavern.

The horn sounded again, closer.

_FUCK._

He slid through, both swords at his belt clacking noisily against the rough stone wall, grunting from the effort. He could just barely fit. Rivulets dripped down from above, splattering his dark hair with rainwater fallen from dewey plants arching perilously low and heavy. At the very least, the crevice would be too narrow for a kingdom knight to make it through with their unwieldy armor, much less an imbecile carrying a war horn on a steed.

Eventually, he could make out a sliver of light marking the exit, and he shuffled a little faster, heart thundering in his chest. He burst out and gasped, so _relieved_ \- before taking view of his surroundings.

_Where in the hell is this?_

He had, perhaps unwittingly, stumbled upon a large, circular enclave, framed protectively by rocky cliffs, cutting a jagged skyline that extended hundreds of feet. The perimeter of the grassy field of wildflowers boasted lush groves of trees, overfull with fruit, plump and gleaming. A pond connected to a towering waterfall, clear and sparkling in the sun.

And in the very center of the enclosure was an ivory tower - a blinding beacon - at least several stories high.

It looked like _paradise_. A place from one of Ingrid's ridiculous stories.

Felix tore his eyes from the top of the tower. 

And promptly came face-to-face with piercing blue eyes.

The girl gaped at him. "Who the _fuck_ -"

He moved on instinct. With both speed and accuracy borne from years of practiced precision strikes, he drew his own weapon at his belt, snarling, and lunged forward to silence her with a single slash.

He certainly didn't expect to be met with _steel_.

"Are you fucking _mad_?" the woman hissed, cobalt eyes flashing. She pressed back, her rapier - _why did she have a rapier_ \- scraping noisily as it slid against his broadsword. 

His jaw dropped, stunned at her audacity, but he recovered quickly. He drew back before making another stab, fast as lightning.

She expertly parried him with a twirl, dropping from her other hand the wrapped cloth she had been holding. He could make out the head of a pheasant visible from the opening. A hunter? 

"You-" he growled, eyes narrowing, but she didn't give him any time to speak, making an aggressive lunge of her own, her teeth bared; he swung up to block the blow and swiftly pivoted, before arcing his arm to strike her from above.

She sidestepped him - again and again - as though it were effortless, blowing past his blade as easily as the wind. She was as light on her feet as he was - something that might have impressed him if he weren't trying to escape with his life. 

But he had no more time to play.

Gripping the hilt of his weapon tight, he darted forward, slamming an open palm against her chest; she choked, disoriented and stumbling backwards, her neck exposed. _Got you_.

He lunged one last time, the tip of his sword glinting.

And then - 

With a vocal hum and a flash of green-

He was on the ground, flat on his back with the girl straddling his waist with her thighs, her rapier poised to pierce his throat.

 _What_ , he thought numbly, staring up at her wide-eyed and stunned, as she heaved several deep breaths, bright blue eyes glued to his. _How-_

She raised the hilt of her weapon.

And with a sickening crack, he fell into darkness.

***

  
Pain. 

That's all Felix could register, an insistent throbbing in his temple that made him dizzy and nauseated as he stirred from an aching void. The act of squinting alone, amidst the light shining through a window nearby landing directly onto his face, only made his headache pound harder, a steady thundering drum, and he groaned.

His molten gold eyes adjusted as they opened.

And met cerulean.

"You're awake."

His vision cleared slowly. Still locked in her stare, he opened his mouth, tried to raise his hand, before realizing he was very thoroughly imprisoned to the chair upon which he sat; his hands were tied tightly behind his back with thick rope, his feet similarly immobilized.

The girl was watching him patiently, curiously. As if he were a stray animal, and not a grown man she had tied up.

"Drink this," she said, not unkindly, as she held up a waterskin.

"Fuck off," he spat, and then immediately regretted it - his voice came out as a rasp, and he heaved several loud, dry coughs that rattled through him.

"Stop being a baby," she chided, raising it to his lips and prodding; he choked it down at first, but the cool water on his parched tongue felt like _heaven_ , and then he couldn't resist drinking greedily with deep, noisy gulps.

Her lips quirked in a small smile, nearly invisible - he might have missed it had he not been trained to read such expressions from Sylvain in the presence of his brother. She drew back once he drained it, and crossed her arms.

"Why have you come here?"

Felix panted, catching his breath, and surveyed his surroundings. They were in a well-lit room, clearly not meant for interrogation. Dust motes dancing in the beams of sunlight shined down from glass windows overhead. Old, musty bookcases lined the perimeter of the room, stuffed to the brim with thick, sturdy texts, and a number of weapon racks decorated one corner, holding an impressive variety of blades of varying shapes and sizes. The smell was almost a familiar comfort - oil and steel - but it mingled with the smell of breads and spices from what looked like a kitchen table. 

The woman leaned forward, and repeated, "Why have you come here?"

"I didn't mean to." A safe non-answer.

"You didn't _mean_ to enter a secret alcove hidden deep in the forests of Faerghus? Want to try that again?"

"I was on the run," he hissed, indignant. "I was trying to get to higher ground, before _you_ ambushed me."

"I did no such thing," she said, expression bewildered. " _You_ bumped into _me,_ and decided to impale me within the span of three seconds. Do you always slay people without thinking it through?"

Felix heaved a heavy breath, heat crawling up his neck. "Who _are_ you?"

"You first."

"Felix," he ground out.

"My name is Byleth. It's very nice to meet you, Felix," she said pleasantly, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear.

"Charmed," he said sarcastically, jerking his head to his restraints. "Would you mind letting me go, _Byleth_? I have somewhere to be."

Byleth clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, standing up from where she had been kneeling in front of him. "I haven't decided if you're a threat or not."

"You seem perfectly capable of handling yourself if I was," he shot back, though his voice had an edge of uncertainty. How _had_ she bested him? He was so sure he had her pinned - his blade had been ready to strike with precision. He rarely misjudged a lethal blow.

"Thanks," she chirped, moving to refill the waterskin from a pitcher on the table. "My father trained me."

A snort. "Does he know you've kidnapped a man and tied him up?" 

"No, he's been dead five years." Byleth approached him once more and kneeled, lifting the waterskin with a pointed look; he grunted and let her bring it to his lips again. "Who were you running from?"

"The kingdom guard," he said, licking a rivulet of water dripping down his chin. 

"Why?"

"We - I stole something."

"Ah." Her eyes crinkled with mirth. "So you're a common thief."

"I suppose. Is there a _point_ to this interrogation? Are you intending to turn me in?"

"Me?" She snorted. "Please. I'm just trying to get your story straight. Because, you see..." She leaned forward again, mere inches from his face, and now a deliberate smile actually spreads, slow and impish, across her face. "...You don't move like a common thief. You move like a trained soldier."

He flushed slightly, but his eyes remained hard and cold. He tilted his chin up defiantly. "And you don't fight like a common girl trained by her father."

Byleth's grin widened. "My father was a capable mercenary, once upon a time. And I have dispatched soldiers who have sneaked into my territory every now and again, so my blade has been whet plenty."

Felix barked a laugh. " _Your_ territory? What is this, your own personal kingdom?"

Byleth's eyes flitted to the window, and then back to his. "In a sense."

This conversation was getting them nowhere, and Felix has already lost his patience. Judging by the daylight outside, it's been a few hours - enough time for Sylvain and Miklan to get to safety, if they had indeed escaped. He needed to _move_. "What will it take to let me go? Coin?"

Byleth hummed thoughtfully. "No, I'm perfectly self-sufficient without kingdom coin, thank you."

"Then what-"

"Are you a mercenary?" she interrupted, crossing her arms and cocking her head.

Felix frowned. "No. I told you, I'm a thief."

"But you do travel in a group."

"Of sorts."

"Great." Her eyes glittered. "I want to join you."

He had been quietly, carefully struggling against his restraints as she had been questioning him, and had been making some progress, but her words made him take pause. "What," he asked flatly.

"You heard me," she said. "Let me in."

"Why would a sheltered girl in a tower want to join a band of thieves?" he asked, disbelief evident. "And don't say _adventure_ ," he added, face pulling in disgust.

Byleth grabbed a chair, legs squeaking noisily as she dragged it against the floor tile, and took a seat across from him. She leaned forward to brace her elbows on her knees, expression serious for the first time since they started speaking; he straightened accordingly, eyes narrowing. 

"I've been stuck in the same place my whole life. I have no family, no friends, no idea of who I am, where I've come from. I can fight. And you," she said pointedly, "are interesting."

 _Interesting_ \- like he was a new toy for her to play with in her silly little game of pretend. "I understand you're sheltered, but I'm not a shepherd herding a lost lamb," he responded coolly. 

She laughed shortly. "Do I look like a lost lamb to you? I want purpose, a reason to fight beyond what I put on my plate for dinner. And I won't find it here, locked away from the outside."

Now _that_ sounded familiar. 

Felix pursed his lips, doing some quick math in his head, weighing the risk and reward of taking her along with him. It was out of the question to actually let her join his three-person army - for one, because he couldn't consult either of the members, and also because he had no confidence in her for him to let his guard down. She could slit his throat in his sleep.

But she _was_ strong. The way she moved around him, fluid and precise in her parries, had impressed him in the moment; whatever win he had almost gained was with some element of luck against her rather than his own skill. And having another sword-arm might be helpful if he had to route any pursuing guards on his way to the Faerghan coast. 

A temporary companion. One he could leave behind when convenient.

He leaned back with a resigned huff. "Fine."

Byleth blinked. "Really?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why are you surprised? You're the one who asked."

"No, no - I'm grateful." And then added, "I have your stolen sword, too, so I'm glad I didn't have to threaten withholding it."

"You-" Felix sputtered, head whipping around him; sure enough, the sword was no longer attached to his belt. "Where is it?" he hissed.

"I have it on me," she said cheekily, reaching behind her to unclasp the long, ivory weapon from a leather loop attached at her waist; she twirled it deftly, before tucking it under her elbow. "It's nice. What's it made of? I've never seen such a material before."

"Don't just swing that _around_!"

Byleth just laughed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> byleth: don't let anyone live in your head rent-free :)  
> sothis: is this an eVICTION NOTICE-
> 
> Once I can figure out some regularity, I hope to schedule updates. But I have a pretty abysmal track record with multi-chaptered fics so we'll, uh, see, ha ha. haaaaaaa
> 
> Please let know if you liked it! My confidence is that of a fragile baby bird.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well writing this went by quicker than I thought, ha ha

***

_Why can't we leave, papa?_

_Why should we, kid? We've got everything we need right where we are._

***

  
Byleth supposed that, at the time, she hadn't phrased her question quite right - that it wasn't a _why can't we_ at all, that she had, in her cowardice, changed it from a _when can we_. There was no answer he could give that would satisfy her, realistically. Her father had made it clear that the world outside theirs was one without mercy, one never meant for her to cross.

She wasn't romantic. She wasn't.

But the books Jeralt had collected for her dutifully from the libraries of Fhirdiad _had_ still overfed her imagination, and her soul _hungered_. Every experience she hadn't the privilege of knowing felt so frustratingly out of reach, as if dangling on a wire over a dangerous precipice. Her father had taught her to ride horseback, given her a strong sword-arm, showed her how to shoot down birds streaking across the skies. He showed her how to restring a bow, sharpen obsidian to a point, stitch split flesh and start a bonfire and cauterize a wound. 

These were the things he had assumed she craved from her novels of adventure - the violence. And he tried to whet her appetite, he had. But it was like trying to slap a simple bandage on a cut that still bled freely.

She didn't have the courage to tell him the embarrassing truth at the core of her: that she was, simply, lonely.

She had wanted a _friend_. Someone who wasn't on constant watch, and someone who didn't merely exist in her head beyond intangible wisps of thoughts, memories, emotions. Someone real, solid, her age - who would secretly climb the trees of the forests surrounding Fhirdiad with her, pick under-ripe apples on the highest branches and then patch up each other's careless scratches and bruises from the rough, bark-scraping fall. Someone who would fish with her, shoulder-to-shoulder with their feet kicking bubbles in the pond, to fill a barrel to the brim with squirming pikes and loaches, and then set them free and wild into the murky waters again. Someone who would catch fireflies with her in the mild summer evenings, bottling and hanging them like precious, glittering lanterns.

She grew out of most of her dreams, adapted and eventually found comfort in herself in isolation - even without her father, ripped away from her when he left one day on horseback and simply never returned. And the question of _when_ had transformed to a _will I ever_. The ache became easier to ignore with each year that passed, grew dull and muted, like a stone that had lost its polish. 

But she still _wanted_ \- just, simply. The small pleasures that eluded her in every fable and tall tale that was still crammed, yellowing and water-bloated and dog-eared, in her bookshelf. 

She _wanted_. Not daring chases and dragons and swordfights, but to hitch a ride on a wagon that creaked and trembled through uneven dirt roads, passing lanes of cottages and groves, hillsides of wildflowers with sheep spilling down them like thick rivulets of cream. Wanted to buy a round of expensive, smoky whisky - she had never even _tried_ whisky - for a bar full of fiendish rogues, and drink until she forgot her own name. Wanted to dine at a nondescript inn with inedible bowls of slop, as tasteless and salt-of-the-earth as the people who served it. 

She had vomited when Felix had obliged her on the latter-most endeavor.

"You've got to be kidding me," he had said in disbelief, passing her a cloth and eyeing the innkeeper, who had been glaring daggers at them.

Byleth had snatched it to wipe her mouth miserably, looking down in regret at her sordid bowl of tainted gruel. "I barely downed half of it."

"We can still turn back. This is what life on the road is like. If you can't handle it..." he began. Was that _hope_ in his voice? How _dare_ he?

And Byleth had glared at him until he fell silent and sullen.

It had already been nearly a week, now. They had fastidiously cleared beyond the thick forests of Fhirdiad, dragged their weary bodies to the coasts adjacent to Gautier territory by nightfall, and Felix had rented them rooms to wait for word from his partners in crime. If either of them had been caught, he was certain he'd hear rumors of it at the inn's tavern - the crime had been high-profile enough, after all, to warrant gossip - and so he surreptitiously staked out in a booth most days, nursing a pint with his eyes and ears open.

Byleth didn't always accompany him during the day, content to tread water and leisurely fish by the docks until sundown, licking the saltwater from her fingers as she waded into the surf. He supposed there were stranger pastimes for a girl so odd.

This evening, however, she had chosen to sit across from him at his booth, sipping the froth from her drink carefully and slowly. "I always thought beer would taste sweeter."

Felix didn't engage, but cocked his head to show he was, at least, listening.

"I tried it when I was little," she said absently, leaning against her hand, elbow set against the wooden table sticky and stained with rims of past mugs. "Though I don't remember. My father gave me a sip of his once, and he said I loved it. I didn't get to try it again after that, so I assumed it must have tasted nice to a kid." She swirled her glass. "Tragic that he didn't teach me how to ferment my own. Thanks, pops."

"You seem to have gotten by well enough until now without it."

"Yes, well." She took a heavy gulp this time, exhaling slowly, after. "You live practically when you know no one is coming to save you."

Felix's amber eyes flickered to her. "You don't look like you need much saving."

"Well, not anymore. Self-sufficiency is a learned skill."

"That's admirable, isn't it?"

She smiled at him. Felix probably never knew what it meant to live his life like clockwork - planning days and resources and supplies, weighing what perishables to keep fresh and what to pickle and cure and dry and store, with the terrifying knowledge that everything was finite. Those first few months she had been on her own, she had nearly starved from skipping meals and rationing what Jeralt had left behind in their stock. Shivering and weak, she convinced herself that if she went a little hungrier now, then it meant she'd be able to eat when it actually mattered.

Instead, she replied, "Most would say depressing, I'd think. But thank you."

He grunted, taking a brief swig of his own drink. 

He had to pace himself. It was easy to lose track of time when shooting the shit with Byleth, he discovered, if only because her life story made absolutely _no sense at all_. 

"Do you find me strange?" she asked with a laugh, as if she had heard every word.

"Would you be so surprised if I did?" 

"I guess not," she said, though her smile turned sad, and he felt a strange, unfamiliar lurch in his stomach at the expression.

He opened his mouth, as if to add something to alleviate whatever it was plaguing her, and then promptly closed it, at a loss. Finally, he settled on, "It's fine to be different."

She hummed at that. "I suppose you aren't typical either," she observed, eyes dancing in amusement, all traces of whatever melancholy had been in them now gone. "Your swordplay and footwork are different from the kingdom soldiers I've come across so far."

"That's because the kingdom soldiers are incompetent," he snorted, and she raised her glass in agreement, chuckling. "They're just one kind of enemy, trained to fight enemies like themselves - it takes just one unfamiliar move and they're on their knees." He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed smugly. "Fight soldiers from the Alliance or Empire and you'll see how much one's style can vary."

"I'm well aware," she said, smile now hidden behind her mug. "Is that why you travel around? Thievery doesn't seem to be your passion."

He cocked an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

"Well," she said wryly, "when we discuss it, you don't seem to light up half as much as when you talk about fighting, or when I ask you to spar with me. You seem to like the battle more than the reward."

"Maybe I just like sparring with you."

"Aww," she cooed, raising her mug again, reaching over to clink it to his half-empty glass abandoned on the table. "I'm flattered, really. You're fun to fight, too, for what it's worth."

He wished he could say it wasn't really worth that much, but to him, eerily enough, it _was_. The few times Byleth had eagerly asked him to train in the last few days - no doubt excited to finally have a proper partner to parry her blows, rather than the makeshift dummies from the stumps in her orchard - he had been meticulously studying her movements, her footwork, the swing of her sword, trying to figure out what exactly it was that had bested him when they first crossed blades. He still can't quite figure it out, but there was something _unnatural_ about the win.

 _Maybe you're just a sore loser,_ he could hear Sylvain chime in gleefully in his mind. 

He unceremoniously shoved the apparition into a _very_ deep hole.

Whatever it had been, it hadn't repeated itself. Most rounds of theirs ended in a draw, with both of them sweaty and exhausted in the sand. Their wins were split down the middle. He so rarely found an opponent worth his while.

She had called him interesting, before. Had she ever once looked in a mirror?

They spent another hour there in the tavern, drinking at a leisurely pace. Despite her initial abysmal foray in tavern cuisine, Byleth holds her liquor impressively, three beers in with only a light rosy blush to her cheeks, her laughter coming just a little easier with each. If he found it infectious enough to smile back, well, he could blame it on the drink. 

The jingle of the door opening and closing had sounded dozens of times that evening, but it slammed against the back wall suddenly with force, followed by armored, clinking footsteps. 

Felix eyed Byleth, mouth closed in a thin line while raising his chin slightly. She leaned a little more heavily on her hand, her posture casual, but she watched him soberly.

"Felix."

Both Felix and Byleth jerked at the direct address, looking up.

A young woman, flaxen hair cropped short and pulled back into an elegant twist that glinted in the tavern torchlight, stared down at him with hard viridian eyes. Byleth's darted between the two, trying not to betray her own interest, while Felix's face almost immediately fell.

"Ingrid," he said, suddenly looking overtired. 

"I've been looking all over for you. I can't _believe_ you three."

"Spare me the lecture," he said, voice now low and fierce. "You shouldn't be here."

"You're right, I shouldn't - chasing after you all time and time again, even though I know for a fact that you'll _never_ learn no matter _what_ I say-"

Byleth cleared her throat uncomfortably, effectively silencing them both. The woman's eyes snapped to her, her face still contorted in a deep frown. 

"Sorry, but could you two be a little more... Discrete?"

The woman opened her mouth again fiercely, as if to now lecture Byleth too, but then paused and glanced around her uncertainly; people seated around the small tavern had begun staring at their table. 

Felix stood, slamming down enough coin for Byleth and him both. "Let's step outside."

  
***

The three of them sauntered out to the open space behind the inn, where the planks of wood surrounding the building eventually gave way to crabby, dried grass interspersed in the sandy landscape. 

"A pegasus," murmured Byleth, blue eyes wide with awe, as she drew closer, footsteps deliberate and quiet, to where the animal was tied to a wooden post. It whinnied, but it didn't seem particularly spooked by her; she rested a hesitant, careful hand on its muzzle to stroke it, a soft smile gracing her features.

Ingrid glanced between Byleth and her pegasus, befuddled. "You'd think she's never seen one before."

"She hasn't," Felix cut in, exasperated. Ingrid blinked. "Why did you come, Ingrid? Surely you're not that desperate to tell me off."

As if remembering where she was and who _he_ was, the woman's brows drew together again, expression hard. "First of all, I don't _want_ to tell you off - do you think this is fun for me? You three _make_ me by being utter _nuisances_. How do you think the Margrave and your father feel about their sons constantly violating kingdom law for _kicks_?" she hissed.

"Margrave?" Byleth interrupted, looking between the two in surprise. 

"Your friend doesn't even know who you are?" Ingrid asked, stricken.

Ignoring the word _friend_ , voice laced with warning, he merely said, "Give me your message."

Ingrid huffed. "I'm here because your dear partner _Miklan_ ," she said darkly, "has started kicking up dust in Gautier territory."

"Is that _it?_ I don't need to hear about his latest tantrum."

"He's stolen the Lance of Ruin, Felix."

A spike of dread shot through Felix at that. He croaked, "You've got to be kidding me." _That fucking idiot_.

"Lance of Ruin?" Byleth interjected again, inquisitively tilting her head.

"It's a family heirloom," explained Ingrid warily, gaze bouncing back and forth between the two. "Belonging to the Gautier line. It was set to be Miklan's, before his parents disowned him. Rightfully Sylvain's, now."

"I thought the two of them were your partners," said Byleth, frowning.

"They are." He exhaled. Of all the things to get caught up in... And with a tag-along, to boot. "Miklan is a thief, he always has been. Sylvain wouldn't abandon him when he was kicked out, and so we decided to work together." _To mitigate his actions,_ Sylvain had insisted, those many years prior. His good intentions, and the family's lack of another heir, were the only reasons the younger Gautier still had access to them at all.

It was clear that Byleth had more questions, openly burning in her eyes, but she quieted.

"Come back to Gautier with me, Felix," Ingrid pleaded. "Miklan's holed up in a tower up north with a bunch of hired hands. Sylvain has already gone back to meet with the Margrave - he thinks he can talk him down, make him surrender. Please."

Felix exhaled, running his fingers through his fringe, agitated. How the hell was he supposed to keep their prize safe if he had no time to even deposit it in a protected location or consult either of them? But if both Miklan and Sylvain were compromised, there was little reason to remain. What a _mess_.

"...Fine."

Ingrid let out a sigh of relief, face relaxing considerably.

"Felix," said a quiet voice next to him, and he turned. 

Byleth was watching him, chewing her lip between her teeth in contemplation.

Right. There was little reason for her to stay without a group of thieves to join -

"I want to go with you."

One could hear a pin drop in the silence.

"What?" both he and Ingrid then parroted, wearing twin expressions of bewilderment.

Byleth crossed her arms across her chest, her face carefully neutral. "I have my reasons to not return home, and I'd like to be of assistance. Let me join you both."

"This isn't your fight," he said severely.

"And I don't mean to be rude," Ingrid cut in with a frown, "but this is a battlefield, you know. There will be bloodshed."

"I'm as good a fighter as Felix," said Byleth smoothly. "You could use the extra hand."

Ingrid stared. Felix looked as though he had swallowed a live rat. 

"Have you ever killed a man?"

"I have," replied Byleth, face still smooth and imperceptible. "Scavengers, thieves, kingdom soldiers."

Her last answer seemed to trigger something sour in Ingrid's expression, but she didn't comment, merely nodding mutely. She turned to Felix, clearly trying to ascertain his position with a look, as if seeking permission she knew was unlikely to be gained.

Her assessment wasn't exactly wrong - talking down Miklan would be less discussion and more a test of mettle, and Byleth's sword _would_ be a significant advantage, far more so than the Margrave's forces. And, somewhat selfishly, he hoped to see more of a display of her skill in a real, honest-to-goddess battle, a glimpse into whatever it was he had seen when they had first met that still eluded him. 

"I guess," said Felix, finally. 

"Wait. Seriously?" said Ingrid numbly.

"She's..." Felix cleared his throat. "She's a talented fighter, Ingrid."

The blonde now gaped at him, as though it was the first time Felix had ever willingly paid someone a compliment in his life. Eventually, though, she recovered - nodding slowly, then, as if working through their itinerary in her mind. "Very well. It's too late for us to take off now. Too dangerous. We can head off in the morning."

"Fine," he agreed curtly.

"I'll head back inside, then, and get myself a room. Don't stay up late, either of you," she added meaningfully, before she turned to circle back around to the inn's entrance.

Felix let out a deep groan, ruffling his hair again. 

"You'll go bald if you keep doing that," chided Byleth, mouth twitching upwards slightly.

"Shut up."

"Felix," she said sweetly.

"What?" he muttered, still irritated. 

But she clearly had sensed his unease, drawing the rapier at her hip. "Let's spar."

  
***

_THWACK._

The clanging of steel reverberated, loud and dissonant, amidst the sound of waves lapping, gently, at the docks.

Byleth leaped forward again, pressing him to get the upper hand as she swung ahead of her, and Felix only barely managed to get his guard up in time.

She was impatient tonight, he noted. Byleth usually outlasted him and his usual aggressive tactics, generally waited for a careless misstep for an opportunity to strike, but something was agitating her now, making her hasty, sloppy. 

He tried not to think too deeply on the fact that he could already read how she felt.

She lunged again, panting, and he deflected her blow easily, sidestepped her and raised his sword arm to block what he expected to be a swing from her right. But she surprised him, feinting the movement and bringing her sword up from below in a long arc. It scraped along his own blade noisily, pushing it off to the side to leave him vulnerable; he quickly maneuvered his upper body out of the path of her stab.

She's pushing the both of them towards the end of the dock, but he's the one closest to stepping off the edge. This was another thing he noticed she liked - discovering the different pitfalls of their terrain and using them to her advantage.

He still has a few feet before dropping into the drink, could likely find a way to press back and turn the tide, but instead he lowered his sword arm with a dry, "I yield."

"What?" Byleth lowered hers warily, surprised at the premature surrender. "Are you tired?"

"You're not at your best," he commented mildly, tucking his broadsword back into his sheath and raising his other hand to wipe his forehead, where it beaded with a light sheen of sweat. 

"From where I stand, you were about to go for a swim."

"As if I'd want to take a dip in the night for a play-fight." Then, suspiciously, "What's really going on with you?"

Byleth rolled her eyes and sheathed her sword, too, but merely plopped down onto the docks, flinging her legs over the side to dangle over the edge.

Hesitantly, he joined her.

Byleth fiddled with the ends of her hair, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "What Ingrid said earlier, about Miklan and Sylvain. They come from a noble line."

He looked away from her, focusing on the misty line of the ocean ahead of him, dim and blurry in the darkness. "They do."

"And Ingrid?"

"An old childhood friend," he started, but she's pulling a face, so he pressed on, "and from the Galatea family."

Byleth hummed. "Nobility."

"Yes."

She kicked her feet lightly below them, the tips of her sturdy boots skimming the water where the waves gently rock up against the pier, sprinkling the two of them them just barely with sea-salt spray. "What's your full name, Felix?"

He supposed there was little reason to hide it, now. "Fraldarius."

Something of recognition lights in her eyes. "To the northeast, right?"

"Right."

"Are you the heir?"

Part of him does want to say no, or it's complicated, but knowing his father, it isn't. Still waiting for him to see reason, most likely. "Technically, yes."

"Are you going to give me a real explanation?"

He tilted his head to intimidate her with a fierce glare, hoping it might be withering enough to make her abandon this conversation - he could snap at her that it was none of her business, which it _wasn't_ , and close her off from him. 

But meeting her gaze, she didn't seem to hold any contempt or anger at the dishonesty of his omission to her. Just a gentle curiosity in those cobalt eyes of hers, of understanding, and trying to understand _him._ And while the vulnerability of it would normally perturb him, he also suddenly couldn't see reason to fight her when she had chosen so easily to lend him her aid.

He licked his lips, unsure of where to begin. "The original heir - my brother - died. I'm the only heir remaining, like Sylvain for his family."

Byleth shifted a little closer to him, stopping only when she saw him stiffen. "But you don't want to be."

"No, not particularly."

"Is that why you left your house?"

"Partially," he said, and then realized it's the first time he's admitted that it played a role in his departure at _all_. Sylvain had surely sensed it, but he had been too grateful to have a friend join him in his endeavors to mitigate Miklan's damage that he never pressed him on the matter. "But I wanted to hone my blade outside Faerghus. See the world."

"And you rolled your eyes at _me_ possibly thirsting for adventure," she teased, but there's no malice to it.

He barked out a laugh, too. "You did subvert my expectations. What damsel in distress already knows how to slit a man's throat?"

She nudged him, pulling another face. "What man gets his ass handed to him and still calls the victor a damsel in distress?"

"Fair point," he replied, mouth quirking. It nagged at him again, that feeling of defeat - the tip of her blade at his neck as she pressed him into the grass - but he refrained from commenting on it.

She leaned back, resting her upper body on her forearms to support her, tilting her head up to survey the scattering of stars winking at them overhead. "Thank you for telling me."

He looked at her then, studying her. Part of him had dreaded judgment, had even hoped that, in her extreme isolation, she might also be ignorant of the workings of Fodlan's nobility, of their existence. But nothing about this woman seemed to follow his expectations. Perhaps it simply meant little to her, when she never had to encounter its trappings. 

_You march to the beat of your own drum,_ Sylvain had told him. But compared to him, Byleth was off-beat, a syncopated oddity. Her childhood, the source of her skill, even her deeper intentions for leaving her home were still shrouded in mystery. She spoke too easily with him, possibly the first person to have a conversation with her in _years_ , and trusted him to spirit her away, yet she seemed anything but naive.   
  
He felt a light pressure on his hand, soft and warm, and jumped, startled.

Byleth flinched, quickly withdrawing her own hand. "Sorry - you just seemed, um, lost there."

"I..." He stared at where she had touched him, where it suddenly felt like it was _burning_. "I'm fine," he muttered.

She straightened up to peer at him. "You okay?"

"I said I'm fine. We should head back - sleep - or Ingrid will kill us," he said, voice rough and gravelly, and got to his feet. What was _wrong_ with him?

Byleth just nodded placidly. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

His molten eyes flickered down to her. Then, clearing his throat, he reached out his hand and immediately looked away, ears reddening.

A beat passed, two. Then, the hesitant press of her skin against his, light as a butterfly's touch, tickled his skin. Her fingers curled around his, firmer, and he helped hoist her up. 

"Thanks."

"No problem."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> felix: you're not like other girls, byleth. you could kill me in my sleep


	3. Chapter 3

The distant mountains in the north of Faerghus, Byleth had thought, were spitting images the landscape paintings interspersing the illustrated books Jeralt routinely brought her from the Fhirdiad libraries - images he often supplemented with his own fond memories camping in the wilderness when the drawings failed to quench her curiosity. 

Picturesque, the landscape that bordered Fodlan and Sreng was blanketed in shimmering white from the year-round snowfall. Even in the dead of summer, those high peaks were said to still wear hats of ice that dripped from summit to base, morphing into streams that cleaved rocks and fed the rivers running through Fraldarius, Conand, Galatea, coaxing the winter-deadened foliage back to life. Still-frozen lakes where mountain met earth, inches-thick with discs of ice, conjured up visions of children slicing paths with jagged-toed skates and twirling haphazard patterns into the surfaces. 

(The pond outside her tower never did get quite cold enough to hold her weight. She had tried, once, against her father's warning and her own better judgment, and ended up bursting through the surface with a gasp, sputtering and shivering.)

It would be easier to appreciate the beauty of it all, she thought, if they didn't keep running into bandits every few miles. And in the back of her mind, she could feel the stirring of sullen, weary agreement.

Broadsword raised high, Felix let out a vicious snarl and sliced his way through another axeman, splattering the spring-melted snow and staining it cherry-red.

It was, at least, easy to keep track of him on the battlefield.

Ingrid seemed less inclined to shed blood in general, but that didn't prevent her from routing swarms with a practiced ease - she looked every bit the knight in the stories when she flew through the air on her steed, cutting a graceful figure with her lance and shedding shiny white feathers that fluttered down like petals in the wind. If someone were to write a tale of her, she would surely play the gallant hero to perfection.

The fights had been non-existent, up until they had reached Gautier territory - once they crossed the border, however, the bodies begun racking up in an alarming tally the deeper they traversed, brigands growing equally hardier and better-trained with each encounter. 

"Miklan may be a traitorous wretch in the eyes of his family," Felix had said, "but he has never failed to inspire the men who willingly follow him."

(She wondered, vaguely, if that included Sylvain.)

And then after battles came the arduous task of concealing the remnants they left behind - turning the tainted snow and covering it with fresh white to better conceal their trail, smoothing any footprints left whenever forced to venture off the beaten path of the main roads cutting through Gautier. It would do them no good for enemy scouts to report their movements to Miklan, Ingrid had insisted, and off-road trees were too sparse to conceal them.

Eventually, they made it to a crossroads of sorts - a split, southeast road leading to the tower where Miklan is supposedly holed up, and northern road where the Gautier estate awaited them.

Predictably, their group splintered.

"We need to head to the estate first," said Ingrid. "Sylvain is there, no doubt - we need him to talk down Miklan."

"Define need," Felix retorted, crossing his arms over his chest stubbornly. "The element of surprise here would serve better. Miklan won't expect us to ambush him without the Gautier force - it's a golden opportunity. We won't see it come again."

"That's reckless! Do you really think the three of us can take his whole band?" she exclaimed, waving her arms in an exaggerated motion, as if to reply in a given negative.

"We won't have to," Felix replied, "if we cut off the head of his army. _Him_."

"Cut _off_?" exclaimed Ingrid, face twisting in horror.

"Calm down. Miklan is as brave as he is confidant - shake him up and he'll surrender. Do you really think you know him better? I've worked with those brothers for years, Ingrid."

"That's not a risk we're authorized to take. This is Gautier business!"

"And he's partners with me, which makes it _mine_ ," Felix snapped.

Byleth glanced between the two bemusedly, trying her best to feign disinterest. This Sylvain surely had been the peacekeeper in their childhood pod of pals - it was hard to imagine another volatile member added without it exploding in shrapnel.

Eventually, though, they reached a standstill, both glaring at one another, both breathing heavily. Then, hesitantly, in unison, they turned to Byleth.

She recoiled at their stares. "What?"

"What do you think?" asked Ingrid. "You're the neutral party here - perhaps you can settle this."

Byleth blinked. "Is my opinion worth anything? I've never met the man."

Felix pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling. "We're not in need of a read of Miklan. It's a matter of strategy."

"Both of you are far more apt at that than I am-"

"Byleth," he interrupted, regarding her in what looked to be a begrudging respect, "you're a better tactician than either of us." The words seemed to have been dragged out of him, judging by the twist of his face.

Her surprise was fortunately masked with her usual veneer of calm. "That's kind of you to say, but misguided."

"I am _not_ misguided-" he bit out, proverbial hackles raised.

"He's right," interrupted Ingrid, green eyes boring into her, though they were tinged with suspicion - it was the same look Felix would shoot her after each battle when he thought she wasn't aware of him. "You predict enemies' positions through the fog before they pounce. You know how to direct us into the most advantageous formations during ambushes. You _do_ have a knack for this."

"I'm just reading the land, the enemy. Neither of you are strangers to that."

"But you have no formal military experience, correct?"

"I have been trained by my father in tactics," she said uncomfortably, "but never on the field." _Obviously._

Ingrid's lips thinned as she regarded her, and Byleth shifted awkwardly in turn; while the pegasus knight had been relatively friendly to her since linking up - even expressed open admiration for her fighting prowess - Byleth's lack of clarity for her dubious upbringing was a clear point of attrition to the other woman.  
  
"It is strange," interjected Felix, "how you move on the field like you've read it in a heartbeat. But," he continued, reverting his glare back to Ingrid, "we should not be looking a gift horse in the mouth. Skill is skill, regardless of origin."

Ingrid exhaled slowly, nodding in acceptance, before casting Byleth an apologetic look. 

Byleth shrugged, but didn't comment further.

"So then," said Ingrid, smiling kindly in what Byleth approximated was her extension of an olive branch, "tell us what you think. You know the risk we take, and we both agree your judgment is sound."

Byleth let out a small hum, cerulean eyes scanning the horizon in either direction. "Not to be a downer, but either plan risks either giving away our position or being overwhelmed, doesn't it?"

"Yes. But we don't really have a Plan C," said Felix pointedly, gesturing to the split. "So we're at a disadvantage either way. It just depends upon which of those we should gamble."

"These bandits are probably not as strong as the ones Miklan has surrounding him though, right?"

Grabbing an errant stick on the side of the road, Byleth kneeled into the dirt and drew two circles - destinations equidistant from their point, connected by an analogous split leading back to her. "Felix said there should be a small fishing village out toward Fraldarius, along the riverbank east, where we can rest. If we call a courier to send to Sylvain from there, we can get him - maybe a small group of backup - to rendezvous with us. Here." She circled a point that, judging by distance, was only a few miles out from their present position. 

Ingrid frowned. "Only a few extra hands won't be enough-"

"Any more than a few and we risk a scout finding us - Felix is right on that account," Byleth said, before casting a knowing look at him. "But three of us can only do so much before one of a dozen simultaneous arrows finds its mark. Charging in without sufficient arms won't do us any good."

Felix scowled again as if on instinct, but the expression softened the longer he stared at the dirt, calculating the odds. "It's... Not unsound," he admitted with a grumble.

A sigh of collective relief seemed to pass over the group with his admission, shoulders visibly relaxing. "Glad you agree. I'd hate to see your pretty face skewered with an axe," joked Byleth, voice airy and light now.

 _Pretty?_ His ears reddened. "Stop it," he muttered.

Ingrid pursed her lips again, glancing at Byleth again, but whatever thoughts plagued her didn't seem to be worth vocalizing. "We should get to that village, then."

"Compromise," said Byleth cheekily.

  
***

  
It took them longer than anticipated to reach the small hamlet, their pace hampered by a few more skirmishes - Felix was certain he needed to find a blacksmith to repair his sword as it was on the verge of chipping, and Byleth's rapier could use a good polish, too - but they finally arrived at the wooden gates framing the perimeter.

Ingrid raised a gauntleted hand, halting them at the threshold.

"We should camp," she said.

"No inn?" asked Byleth, dismayed. She had been looking forward to a proper bed after days of sleeping on hard dirt - camping, she had decided the very first morning after, though beloved by her father, was certainly _not_ one of those gritty experiences that would make her a weathered warrior, judging by the ache in her back.

Ingrid shook her head. "We don't want to be spotted so easily - if Sylvain passes through, he'll without a doubt be recognized."

Casting another mournful look at the shingled roof of the inn, where a hearth's welcoming puffs of smoke billowed in thick clouds from the chimney, Byleth nodded, resigned.

"I'm sure I can rustle up some bedrolls," Ingrid conceded, and Byleth immediately perked up. "You two, hand in our weapons quickly and _discretely_ , please. The blacksmith should be-"

"-east of the village, I know," finished Felix, jerking his head in that direction. "We'll see you for dinner. Pick up enough food for three and not _ten_ , will you?"

Ingrid bristled, opening her mouth, and then closing it with a flush.

Once they had dropped off their swords and Ingrid's silver lance at the tiny wooden shack constituting the local smith, they settled on a patch of land not a half-mile outside the village. A meadow broke into a small thicket with smatterings of trees, far enough from the main road that they wouldn't be immediately visible to passersby, and only a blessedly short distance to the river that ran south into Fraldarius.

Byleth perched herself at the edge of it now, legs folded beneath her neatly on one of the surrounding rocks that framed the river, foaming white where trout busily splashed upstream.

She busied herself dabbing icy water on a few scratches, dipping her rag every so often to clean away the small, coppery smears that bled into the current in thin, curling wisps. All the cuts she sustained the last few days were, fortunately, shallow enough that they wouldn't leave a scar. 

She _did_ imagine she might look upon a battle scar with pride. Most of her scars were borne from her own clumsiness over the years - a knife slid too far when chopping potatoes, a rock that sliced her foot clean open during a summer swim, a sharp-toothed bite from a fox struggling in one of her traps. Regardless, she can't help feel a small sense of giddiness at having earned any sort of battle wound even if it would heal within days, smooth and unbroken as if never there at all.

His approach was inaudible as usual, but she _could_ feel eyes honed on her from the prickle on the back of her neck, and her mouth twisted upwards. Felix was well-trained to move soundlessly when he wanted, often choosing when to announce his presence on his own terms. 

But surely he knew how obvious it is when someone is burning holes into the back of one's head. "I know you're there, you know."

Predictably, Felix emerged from the trees, seemingly unfazed, and made his way over to the rocky surface where she was sitting. "I know you know. I let you," he said with a sniff.

She pulled at the thin strip of gauze now wound around her fingers until it was taut, then threaded and knotted it securely. "Here to check in? How kind of you."

"That's it? Just your hand?" he said, disbelief evident.

"And arm," she said defensively, waving her left one emphatically, where another piece of gauze is wrapped around her forearm - a small gash that both bled and staunched itself in little time.

"You sound disappointed somehow," he commented, lips quirking as he took a seat a few feet from her.

"Saying _'I went to Gautier and all I got was maybe tetanus from a rusty axe'_ is a pretty mediocre souvenir, I have to say."

"How unfortunate for you."

"How unfortunate for _you_ ," she said pointedly, a single eyebrow raised. "You have it far worse. Look at your arm. You're bleeding still."

Felix glanced down, and sure enough, it seeped a deep red where he had cleaned it not ten minutes prior.

"Give it here," Byleth said. He obliged, letting her peel the moist bandage back, sticky and bright. "You need to put more pressure on it. Goddess, Felix, you'd be less inclined to be in such a state if you didn't charge head-first into an enemy's blade. You're lucky they didn't take your whole arm with this, you know?"

He admittedly _had_ been lucky - Ingrid having made it to him in the nick of time to slam the butt of her lance into the enemy, staggering them so the arc of their blade was a few significant inches off - but in his defense, their _entire_ group had been overwhelmed at the time, and he had been getting sloppy with fatigue. Byleth, in contrast, never seemed to sustain a laceration, dodging and swerving on the battlefield as gracefully as her evasive maneuvers allowed, blue hair whipping around her in deadly spins. 

She insisted her kills were limited to those who attacked her home, and more recently those on the field since they met, but Ingrid's suspicions were a more obvious expression of Felix's; he had simply learned to tuck his own away, hidden carefully under the surface. The agile way she sometimes moved, as if she had fought an enemy a thousand times even prior to their first blow, betrayed a level of skill far beyond a trained soldier. Beyond an assassin, even. And all beneath that _maddeningly calm veneer_.

A tug snapped him out of his reverie - Byleth pulled at the gauze she had wrapped tightly around his wound, neatly folding the end into a lower layer to secure it in place. "There you go."

Felix withdrew his arm, flexed his hand, and let out a satisfied grunt.

Byleth cocked her head curiously. "So what did you want to talk about? I imagine you didn't come for me to rib you for a piss-poor wound dressing." A pause, then a mirthful edge crept into her voice. "Did you just come to _talk_? Surely you're not getting _sweet_ on me."

"You read too many stories," he said glibly. 

"I haven't read a book in _years_ , sir. I'm as vapid as can be."

"You're fooling nobody with _that_ , but never mind. I came to give you this." He reached to his belt, where the bone-white sword he had been carrying since Fhirdiad was affixed, and unlatched it. He held it out to her. "For the time-being."

Byleth's brows furrowed, but she reached over to trace her fingertips over the hilt carefully. "Felix, is this wise?"

"Wiser than me holding onto it," he said, and she gripped the hilt more firmly; he let his own hand drop. "You know that Miklan will more than likely assume it's on my person and target me. Try not to dirty it up. _Gently used_ relics sell for far less."

She frowned. "Target you? You think he's given up on your partnership to that point?"

"This isn't the first time," he said with a huff, running his fingers through his fringe and mussing the dark strands into unruly spikes. "Perhaps the most irritating, since he's dragged you and Ingrid into it."

"So this is a habit of his," said Byleth, eyes narrowing to slits. 

"He tries to go solo every now and then when he's angry - to prove he's the ringleader, the brains of the operation, whatever. He tires himself out, Sylvain coaxes him back, and the cycle continues," he said, bitterness lacing his tone.

"What could have set him off this time around, then?"

Felix glanced down at the sword now resting in her lap, and pursed his lips. "Me, probably. He may have thought taking the Lance of Ruin would show me up." He scoffed. "As if we were competing at all."

For the first time since he's known her, Byleth scowled deeply, marring her usually smooth features with harsh lines. "You're making me question the validity of joining your merry troupe, to work with someone like that."

"I never said it was merry," he pointed out. 

"I guess not. And thievery isn't really valid to begin with, I suppose." 

He paused, watching her carefully. "Byleth."

Her hands were busy tucking and securing the pale, jointed sword into her own belt at her hip, clearly distracted. "Yeah?"

"I'm trusting you with something."

That gave her pause, and she looked up at him, expression suddenly sober. "I won't betray you, Felix. You're the first -" _Friend-_ "- comrade I've ever had."

"I know," he said. "So I want you to trust _me_ , and answer me this: who was your father?"

Byleth stiffened, and she turned her head away from him, curtain of navy swinging forward to hide her face.

Felix waited several beats in silence, watching patiently, but she remained frozen; he huffed out an exasperated breath. "Are you really going to keep it a secret? _Still?_ Who is he, for fuck's sake, the bloody emperor of _Adrestia_?"

"No - no, that's not it. I..." She tugged at a lock of dark hair absently. "I want to tell you."

He stared dumbly. "Oh."

"It's just - well, I haven't told anyone before. And I... I don't know what it would mean, if that makes sense?" She tucked her hair behind her ear, still facing away from him. "His name was Jeralt."

"Jeralt," he repeated, bewildered. Something about it instantly nagged at him - an echo of an old lecture from his father, somewhere in the recesses of his mind.

Byleth seemed to sense this; watching him out of the corner of her eye, she quietly added, "He was nicknamed the Blade Breaker."

_Jeralt, the Blade Breaker._

Felix gaped at her. "Your father-" he started, voice rising and unstable.

Byleth sagged in her seat at his expression instantly, her slender shoulders hunched. "I knew it would mean something to you. Shit. I bet Ingrid knows him too, doesn't she?"

" _Knows_ him? Byleth, everyone on the blasted _continent_ knows him!"

"Shit, shit, _shit_. I _knew_ he downplayed the title-"

"Your father was leader of the _strongest band of mercenaries in Fodlan_ ," he hissed, "was the _Archbishop's bodyguard!_ He nearly burned the church to the _ground_ -"

"Felix," she snapped, cutting him off, "he _left_ the church when I was _born_."

He reeled back, as if he had been gut-punched. " _That's_ why the Blade Breaker set the church on fire and disappeared from Fodlan? To raise a fucking _kid?_ "

" _I guess!_ " she exclaimed loudly, throwing her hands up in the air - several birds scattered from a nearby pine from the sheer volume of her shriek, squawking noisily in a swarm that burst into the overcast sky. "Pretty shit job at keeping me reined in, considering I broke every one of his rules! But hey, not like he's around to keep track of what I do!"

The words hung in the air between them, electric-charged, and Felix let out another breath, settling his heartbeat that drummed rapidly against his rib cage. Golden eyes bored into furious blue - where, for the first time, he could see a hint of something beyond her occasional teasing mirth, or her usual placid calm. Something horribly familiar, and gut-wrenching. 

_Grief._

"I'm sorry-"

"Yeah, me too." She pulled some of the grass sprouting by the riverbank in thoughtless agitation, ripping both root and stem. "For snapping at you, I mean. But _not_ for leaving."

"I'm not sorry for that either," he retorted automatically, unthinkingly, and then froze.

She looked up, eyes glassy and unfocused, and opened her mouth as if to say something, closed it. Looked down at the her feet, body still curled up protectively on the boulder where they sat, and hugged her knees tightly to her chest.

"Why did he hide you away?" he asked, quieter now.

"I..."

In the distance, though, came the whinny of Ingrid's pegasus, and her soothing voice, through the brush.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, gaze flitting between Byleth and the thickets behind them.

Byleth met his gaze hesitantly, bit her lip. "Later."

"It's fine, you don't need to tell me," he cut in quickly, but she shook her head, wearing a forlorn expression. His stomach lurched.

"Tonight." She stood decisively. "Let's head back, before Ingrid comes looking."

He nodded mutely, moving to join her.

"And Felix?"

He cocked his head.

"My father _didn't_ disappear from Fodlan," she said, eyes darkening. "Not until five years ago."

And with that, she turned on her heel and strode back through the brush to where Ingrid was calling for them, leaving him staring at her back again.

  
***

  
The three of them ate a sparse dinner over the bonfire Byleth had built for them from kindling in the area, grilling skewers of fresh, marbled meat Ingrid managed to procure from the market, seasoned simply with salt and speared with slivers of garlic. Felix summoned a dagger from his hip, cutting chunks of pear sprinkled lightly with cinnamon, and passed them around to share, along with three clinking bottles of cider. 

Predictably, Ingrid began to pry as Felix had - had asked about Byleth's tower, childhood, family - but it was the bookshelves filled with tales of chivalry that drew her in like moth to a flame. Enthused at finding a common interest, her bright green eyes lit up in recognition with each title Byleth recalled that had been crammed into each crevice. The distraction thankfully stopped her from pursuing more arduous lines of questioning.

Soon, they were trading stories of their favorite legends with easy familiarity. She hadn't expected to crack Ingrid and win her over in such a way, and Felix looked sufficiently disgusted with the both of them.

"I can't believe you're into that drivel," he said.

"It's not drivel," said Ingrid smoothly, "and you know it."

"I _don't_ know it, in fact. I wouldn't pick up one of those bawdy novels if my life depended on it."

"First, not bawdy. Second, if you haven't read them then you're in absolutely no position to judge." She popped a piece of pear into her mouth after roasting it on the end of her skewer. "There's plenty to be gleaned from legends, even for a battle freak like yourself."

"I'm not interested in stories of glory and romance," he said, leaning forward to warm his hands by the fire. "Enough men die in pursuit of both."

Ingrid rolled her eyes, leaning back to drain her bottle with a heavy swig, then wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her cotton blouse. "There are more idiotic things to die for. Relics and trinkets, for example?"

"I don't intend to die for either."

"I should _hope_ not."

"What do you intend to die for, then?" Byleth cut in, sufficiently diverted by their tit-for-tat.

Felix glanced her way, watching her for a moment, before raising his bottle to his lips. "I have no delusional aspirations or lofty ethical principles to send me to an early grave."

A chill washed over the group for a split second; Ingrid, who had absentmindedly been humming a flat melody, quieted. Byleth's eyes flickered back and forth between the two, where the air was now charged. _What the hell had she missed?_

But then the crackle of the fire as one piece of kindling splintered, shattering whatever mood had settled among them. Felix turned to prod another chunk of wood into place, staring stubbornly into the embers.

Ingrid cleared her throat, and Byleth found herself eager for the coming change in subject, even if she was to bear the brunt of the attention. "Tell me about your home, Byleth. I can't imagine living on my own for so long. How did you earn coin?"

The cider, held up in front of the fire, winked a brilliant, fiery gold; she surveyed it placidly. "I didn't. I've never been shopping in my life, save for the last week or so."

"Then how did you get by? Surely you couldn't harvest everything you needed in such a place."

"You'd be surprised," said Byleth mildly, relieved at this practical line of questioning - far easier than maneuvering her way around the tender questions with sensitive answers. "We managed a long time on fruit and bread and vegetables, before my father annexed the nearby woods and dug us a pond." 

"What about daily necessities? Sundries?"

"I made what I could from the forests and fields. You can get plenty of oils from trees and flowers, and fat from animals."

"Goddess." Ingrid blew a stray lock of pale hair from her face. "I thought my family lived decently within our means, but you truly put us to shame."

Byleth laughed. "It's not so difficult once you learn. I lived quite happily on my own, you know."

"I envy you," admitted Ingrid. "Perhaps if the rest of us learned to be so independent, we wouldn't need to rely on trade between territories so much. It would save the kingdom many headaches."

"To be fair, I doubt I technically own the land where I live," said Byleth, eyes dancing wickedly, "and I certainly haven't paid a cent to the kingdom. I imagine I'm guilty of some hardcore tax evasion."

Felix smirked at the admission, while Ingrid sputtered incoherently, coughing into her bottle.

"But," she continued, smile turning wry, "I have to say I'm a little envious of you, too."

"Of me?" said Ingrid, just barely recovered. "Why?"

Her now-drained bottle, suspended in the air with the lip held between her fingers, swung back and forth idly, glass glinting in the firelight. "Because you all grew up together - you, Felix, Sylvain, even the crown prince, you said? You had one another for company. It must have been nice."

"I thought you had your father," said Ingrid with a frown.

"I loved my father," she said, and could feel Felix's eyes on her. "But it's hard to call your father a friend."

It struck her how sad the statement was as soon as it left her lips. All at once, she felt her face burn in embarrassment - not for craving companionship, but for expressing it in such a childish way, and to two adults who seemed roughly her age. It hadn't occurred to her that her lot in life was pitiable, not until seeing what she had been missing - what was sitting here in front of her, in the flesh.

Quick to dispel the discomfort before the statement had time to settle, she added, "I did have some contact with people stumbling upon my home and trying to skewer me on sight, though. It happens more than you'd expect."

Immediately, Felix choked on the dregs of his cider, his cheeks visibly reddening, and Byleth's mouth twisted crookedly again.

"Byleth," said Ingrid.

"Hm?"

"I'd be pleased if you came back to Galatea with me."

Her smile faded slowly. Byleth could see no trace of mirth in Ingrid's eyes, and her own widened at the significance of the invitation. 

"Your circumstances are strange, I'll admit, and I have more questions I'd like to ask you," she confessed. "But we could always use capable fighters like you, and you'd have a home with us - if you so choose."

"Ingrid," started Felix, brows drawn together, but Ingrid held her hand up to silence him.

Gingerly placing her empty bottle on the ground and then straightening, Byleth said, carefully, "That's a rather generous offer."

"I know you've asked to join up with Miklan and Sylvain and Felix. I'm not sure what it is you're looking for. But I think I could offer you a stable life outside your tower walls, if you wanted it for yourself," said Ingrid, her eyes softening. Felix suddenly let out a low growl across from them, but she ignored him, gaze still fixed resolutely on Byleth. "And I would be honored to call you a friend, regardless."

Heat bloomed in Byleth's chest at the statement, unfurling and spreading to her fingertips despite the cold. She could feel her face warming, her eyes watering, and felt a deep ache in her chest, suddenly and inexplicably _overwhelmed._ She swallowed a lump in her throat, finding it strangely hard to breathe. "Ingrid..." 

"We should tidy up and get ready for bed," came Felix's voice, cutting coldly through them with unfeeling sharpness; it shattered whatever gravity the conversation held.

Ingrid turned to regard him with equal and deliberate coolness, though her head tilted in concern. He refused to look at either of them, however, making to stand and tossing his meat skewer into the fire, where it crackled with the rest of the kindling. 

Byleth swallowed again, finding it a little easier without being affixed with so direct a gaze. "It is getting late, I suppose."

Ingrid nodded placidly, coming back to herself. "True enough. We should expect Sylvain by tomorrow, if he agrees. Best rest up now, while we can."

"Um. Ingrid."

The blonde knight looked at her inquisitively, brows raised.

"Thank you," said Byleth. "And I... I'll think about it. Your offer."

She smiled gently. "Of course."

They swept the remaining crumbs and remnants of their meal into the fire as Felix had done. "I'll go rinse the bottles," Byleth said. "Felix, come with me to gather more firewood, would you? This won't last us the whole night."

Felix looked as though he would rather fling himself off the distant mountain range, but she caught his eye over the fire meaningfully, eyes flicking to the direction of the riverbank. He still was clearly irritated, nose scrunched and mouth thin, but his features relaxed slightly once he understood her meaning, and he offered a curt nod.

***

Boots crunched noisily against the twigs and shrubbery on the less-treaded path to the water, Felix's louder, more careless. He was practically radiating anger, he knew. Byleth had deliberately ignored his mood, however, choosing to press on deeper into the foliage with her usual level-headedness, absently brushing away branches and leaves in her way that he elected to simply charge through, snapping some in his wake.

The temperature had dropped steeply after the sun had sunken deep from the horizon, plunging them into inky darkness. Once they had burst through the foliage to the rapids, however, moonbeams reflected bright and shimmering on the water, and Felix's eyes adjusted. 

It wasn't until they reach the riverbank itself that Byleth elected to turn around, expression unreadable.

Before she could speak, he burst out, suddenly, "Fight me." 

Her eyebrows shot up, expression reproachful. "Excuse me?"

"To mortal strike." Felix fumbled at his hip for his sword. 

Byleth crossed her arms and snorted. "Just because you preface every vulnerable moment of yours with a fight, doesn't mean _I_ have to, you know."

"I'm not..." He grimaced. "Just draw your weapon, idiot."

Her eyes squinted, glinting in the low light at the graceless challenge, but she let out her own resigned huff before reaching for her rapier at her belt. "To mortal strike."

He doesn't even give her time to sink into a defensive stance, lurching forward with winning intent; she adjusted, swerving low to avoid the swing of his blade, swooped past the twist of his body to come up behind him, jumping back to put distance between them before he could bring his elbow crashing down on her.

Adrenaline coursed through him, and he gritted his teeth, flipping the hilt of his broadsword and lunging again. She darted to and fro, not making a move to raise her sword arm even once, simply observing, judging, and his anger flared again. Was she _playing_ with him?

She danced her way around him, and he couldn't help but think again of Ingrid's words - imagined it again, Byleth in Galatean colors, her light frame weighted and heavy with plated armor, unsuitable for the classes that fit her style best. How ill-fitting it would be, for her to waste away in the role of a _knight_. A lifetime of mundane routine, and she would consider slipping into it again - guarding the border between their territory and the Alliance in patrols that yielded no action, House Daphnel as likely to stir up trouble with its branch house as Sylvain was to take an eternal vow of chastity and live as a priest in Garreg Mach.

It was none of his business - he hadn't wanted her to join him in earnest from the start, she was supposed to _leave or be left behind_ \- and then _that_ rolled around unpleasantly in his stomach, too, and he had to bite his tongue-

Byleth swerved around him again and again, watching him with almost-concern. The fact that she had the leeway to even _contemplate_ his state of mind made the fury rear its ugly head all over again. He dug his feet into the dirt, before propelling himself at her with newfound stamina. 

She was agile, but Felix was just as fast as he was aggressive, and he gave her no time to dodge him again. She braced herself to parry him now; the sharp clattering of steel echoed in the small clearing by the water and he pushed her to the shallows, earning himself ground, sloshing the two of them ankle-deep in the painfully icy stream. It then became a game of gain-and-loss, a push-and-pull as he dodged her swings, bringing her towards him, before forcing her back with his own. 

Usually she was more aware of her surroundings - in each battle, she was just as part of the surrounding nature as she was the fight itself. But for the first time that day, more likely from the lack of visibility, she slipped up. The heel of her foot pressed against a stone angled wrong in the water, doubly slippery with moss, and she suddenly staggered back with a gasp, vulnerable and open.

He snarled, pressing the advantage she'd handed him on a platter, about to knock her onto her back and into the water with angled steel-

He heard a low hum, the sound of her voice-

A flash of light blinded him, lighting up the river in dazzling green, for not even half a _second_ -

And then, inexplicably, he's thrown back into the water, straight on his ass, inhaling sharply at the rush of cold seeping through his breeches and shirt with his elbows digging into the rough, pebbled depths.

Byleth sat, chest heaving, on top of him, her knees framing his hips. Her rapier was familiarly poised at his throat, the blunt side of it firm against his neck, dripping water from the end.

"I yield."

His words came low and hoarse. She pulled back wordlessly and stood; he reached up to trace a finger over the red mark now marring the pale skin of his throat in wonder.

"Over here," she said, turning her back to walk to the boulder-framed section of the river.

He rose, numbly, to follow. She took a seat where they had been only a scant few hours prior, gestured to the spot next to her, and he obediently lowered himself, never taking his eyes off her.

"How's your neck?" she asked.

"Fine."

"That's good."

"Byleth-" He cleared his throat, hand still tracing the mark, and then let it drop. "You _let_ me see that. Whatever it was."

She watched him now, but her eyes were carefully blank, her emotions shuttered. "Yes."

"You did the same thing when we met."

"Yes."

He swallowed noisily. "But you didn't mean for me to see, back then."

"You had startled me," she admitted. "I really was fighting for my life, you know."

"I was... I almost killed you. I was so sure I _had_ you."

"You had me," she agreed. "I should have died. Congratulations on the belated win."

The closure should be a relief after weeks of nagging at his psyche and his ego, but now the idea of her throat sliced open by his blade, blood soaking into the wildflowers and dandelions, was enough to make bile bubble up in his throat. 

"You wanted to know why I was hidden away my whole life," she said, letting her legs dangle off the edge of the rock, over the shallows' surface. "That's why."

"That's - you can't just leave it at that," he said, forehead creasing.

"No. But Felix," she said, "you need to promise me you'll never tell a soul about what I'm about to show you."

"Of course I wouldn't," he said in surprise, nearly offended.

But Byleth simply nodded, mouth set in a firm line. She reached her hand out to him, palm-up. "We need to be touching for you to see."

He glanced down at her hand warily, then up to her, ears reddening to the tips; then, he grasped it, uncertain.

And then, contrary to all his expectations, she started to _sing_.

He remembered a few scant attempts of his own during his academy days, when he had been forced to learn religious hymns, and he never did have a knack for it - too imbued with the necessity of natural-born talent over carefully honed skill. Byleth's song is entirely different from any he's heard, neither the playful lilt of Annette's nonsensical little ditties, nor the deep vibrato of his old professor that pierced, full and powerful, through the cathedral.

Her voice is gentle, smooth. Employing none of the technical elements from choral practice, but why would she? She aimed to impress no one. It's honest and low and sweet, and he can't help feeling a little weak in the knees.

The words are unfamiliar, strange - _in time's flow_ \- and almost instantly, the world around them plunged into deep silence as though suddenly submerged underwater, sound muffled save for her low song and his shallow breathing.

And then, from root to tip, her hair began lightening; the deep blue tendrils faded into a slow-growing ombre, before the entirety of it was shining a stunning pale green, the same color of leaves lit up in the midday sun, glowing and nearly iridescent.

Sea-foam eyes opened, bright and clear.

And then, looking around, he finally noticed _why_ it was so quiet.

The world had screeched to a deafening halt. Where the current once flowed noisily, it now sat still as a puddle; nearby, a bird was frozen mid-flight, loose shed feathers suspended in the air. Even the shimmer of the moon reflected on the riverbank remained frozen in stasis, as though the white of it had simply been painted with a broad brush. The colors of everything around them seemed almost hazy and clouded, the light not quite hitting anything right.

Felix tried to croak out a word, say anything at _all_ , but only his breath seemed to escape him. He inhaled deeply, tasting the strange static of the air - not unlike a Reason spell, the same sort of metallic tang to it as the crackle of Thunder. Finally, he fixed his amber eyes on her pastel stare.

"Where are we?" he asked, as safe a question as any to start.

"We're exactly where we were." She licked her lips; his eyes tracked the movement. "I've stopped time. I've been able to do this since I was a child."

"Stopped time," he repeated, faintly.

"It's the goddess' boon," she said. "When I sing or hum her song."

 _That_ nearly stopped his heart. "You're blessed by the _goddess?_ "

"I..." She paused, looking as though she might contradict him. "I've heard her voice for as long as I can remember. Seen her dreams, felt her emotions, sometimes in lieu of my own. And that's not all."

She gestured to the bird he had seen earlier, and his gaze followed. She raised a hand, flicking a finger, and-

It was moving _backwards._

As if being tugged by an invisible string, it slowly landed back on the branch from where it had taken off moments prior, awkwardly, until its wings laid to rest at its side, unruffled. And as it did, he noticed the rapids changing course, too - a trout moved downstream, tail-first, the splash of droplets fusing with the current. The silouhette of a leaf fluttered back up in a bizarre spiral to reattach itself to a stray branch of a tree, and a beetle burrowed itself back into damp soil not three feet away, dirt moving of its own accord to cover where it had protruded.

"Come with me," she said, gripping his hand and moving to stand; entranced, he rose with her like a magnet.

She waded back into the water, which now sat unmoving once again - it shifted around their ankles without even a single ripple, as if they were sloshing through molasses, merely filling the space left behind. And then, reaching with her free hand, she grabbed the fish he had seen easily by the tail, pulling it from the water. The indent where it had been swimming remained, scattered droplets shifting to accommodate, as if parting in reverence of her touch. 

She handed it to him. It might as well have been dead - no pulse, no struggle, no movement. Unnerved, he handed it back, and she placed it delicately back in the water.

"How far back can you go?"

Her fingers tugged at the ends of her sage-green hair, an action he now recognized as an anxious tic of hers. "Not long. A minute or two, cumulatively. It's pretty exhausting. I try not to use it unless absolutely necessary."

And suddenly the days of battle, the dozens of skirmishes, seem to rush back to him with newfound clarity. All the moments he had chalked up to being incredible strokes of luck - Byleth pinpointing invisible archers hidden in coves and disguised within treetops, Byleth materializing out of nowhere to slice through the belly of an enemy about to cut Ingrid down, Byleth pushing him aside seconds before a javelin, flung from afar, pierced his chest - and the phrase _blessed by the goddess_ takes on an entirely new meaning. 

Byleth never seemed to sustain deep injuries herself, always outmaneuvering, always on her toes. Byleth, constantly scolding him every time he rushed into the fray with jaw clenched and teeth bared. How many times had she saved them? _Seen them die?_

"Enough," she said thickly, reading the question from the horror twisting his features. 

His hand gripped hers tighter, and he raised his other hesitantly, fingers twitching as it hovered by her face, as though waiting for permission to touch her at all. She made no attempt to move, however - merely watched, silent - and he slowly, gently, brushed his fingers against a glowing green lock messily framing her cheek. Stared at it, brows furrowed, as if trying to solve a riddle, as though doing so would do - or undo - _any_ of it. And when she still didn't flinch away, he fully buried his fingers into the messy waves, cradling the back of her head and blowing air through his teeth with a pained hiss.

"Felix," she said, his name coming out in a whisper.

"I'm fucking _sorry_ ," he said, his voice gravelly and strained, suddenly feeling _helpless_ ; but she merely shook her head, sympathetic. "Your father knew?"

"He's the only other one who does. _Did._ Felix, no one can know, not even Ingrid-"

"How," he said, voice low, "do you have this power?"

Byleth bit her lip, lowered her gaze to the still waters against her ankles. "I'm not at liberty to say. Even I don't know the full circumstances behind what made me this way."

He snarled at that, pulse throbbing - she surely could feel it beating against his wrist. " _Made_ you - someone _did_ this to you?" 

"I read it in my father's journal," she murmured. "That's why I left home. To find answers. What, and why. For myself, and for him."

"I can help you," he grounded out, desperate.

She looked back up at him in surprise, pale eyes crinkling with open fondness, and a hint of a smile gracing her features. "You have other things to worry about, I think. You've got Miklan, Sylvain. Your next mark. I'm sorry I lied to you - used you. I was too cowardly to leave home on my own, I suppose."

A thousand thoughts raced through his mind at that - _I lied to you too, I don't give a shit about marks, let me do something, anything_ \- all of them battling for dominance, none of them winning decisively enough for him to vocalize. 

"But," she continued, oblivious, "I wasn't lying about wanting to help you with Miklan - you have my sword, I promise."

 _And you have mine,_ he wanted to say. But it admittedly _did_ sound like the same sort of sentimental garbage from the knightly tales he had been snidely criticizing not an hour prior, so he tamped down on the urge. She certainly wouldn't let him live _that_ down.

Seemingly satisfied with their exchange's conclusion, Byleth let out a small hum, an echo of the same melody she had sung before, and with a jerk, the world around them surged to life again - and suddenly they were standing in a babbling river, the current washing over their legs and nearly knocking Felix back with the newfound force of it. Behind Byleth, a bird streaked skyward, cutting a dark figure against the waning moon suspended overhead.

Her hair and eyes had reverted to the dark color he found so familiar. He withdrew his hand from where it had been tangled in the locks, fingers pinching one as if to study it.

She just laughed. "I personally like the blue better."

Inwardly, he couldn't help but agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> byleth, deliberately putting on a light show with her hair: yo check this out. untz untz untz untz untz untz  
> felix: i am having a seizure


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i spent 84 years going through this and i will spend not a moment longer alexa press publish

***

"Your merry band of backup has arrived," called Sylvain, his cutting figure cresting slowly over the hill leading up to the campsite. He seemed to bulldoze his own path to them off the trail, steel-toed boots kicked through clumps of weeds and brush sprouting along the way.

 _Tall_ , was Byleth's first thought, simple as it was. The young Gautier heir easily towered over all of them, red hair haloed in the afternoon light and blazing bright as the sun above.

Despite the dire circumstances in which his house had been entangled, Sylvain wore a broad grin that stretched from ear to ear; it grew even wider when he caught sight of her, a mischievous glint in his eye. 

Judging by Felix's flat, stony expression, he didn't approve of his partner's lackadaisical cheer. 

Sylvain wasn't alone. Three other figures trailed behind him, dwarfed in size - two young women with linked arms, their animated chatting punctuated by occasional giggles, and a young man with an iron bow slung over his shoulder, humming to himself.

"Bit _too_ merry, don't you think?" said Byleth mildly.

Felix let out a snort.

"Bold of the main force to call themselves backup," called back Ingrid in what she tried and failed to pass off as severity, relief and gratitude palpable in her face.

It wasn't just Ingrid, either; a collective sigh had passed through the group as the silhouettes of the three traipsed up the main road. Exhaustion from fighting swarm after swarm had taken its toll. Bumps and bruises didn't heal overnight, and none of them had the appropriate level of Faith skill to accelerate the process.

Drawing closer with the ever-increasing rustle of foliage, Sylvain tapped on his temple, that effervescent grin still stubbornly glued to his face. "Some of us were doing damage control. The old man _does_ get a certain way."

"Don't I know it." Ingrid's voice was unimpressed. "Did you forget who usually ends up as your go-between?" 

"Ah, the more opportunities to see you, dearest Ingrid, queen of my-"

"Sod _off_." She sniffed. "At least we have a tank; that should make the coming battles less arduous."

"Tactically advantageous." He rested a hand against his heart with a sigh. "I'll take it."

"Byleth," cut in Felix, arms crossed and jerking his head, "meet Sylvain-"

Sylvain perked at his mention. "Dashing heir of Gautier-"

"-and a right pain-in-the-ass," finished Felix, eyes narrowing.

"A tactically advantageous pain-in-the-ass! Goddess, I'm learning _so_ many adjectives today."

Byleth smiled back at him despite herself. "Charmed," she said, and held out her hand expectantly; Sylvain grinned cheekily and dipped low to plant an exaggerated kiss on the back of it, eliciting a low growl from her left while Ingrid smacked his upper arm lightly with the back of her hand.

"And my retinue," Sylvain continued, unfazed, gesturing behind him and waving the others over. "C'mon, Ashe, you can't hide behind me forever."

"I'm not even trying to. Not all of us are built like redwoods," laughed the young man, stepping out smoothly from behind Sylvain and offering a polite bow. "Ashe Ubert, at your service." His voice was airy and light, and he boasted a complexion as pale as his eyes and hair, with impressively long eyelashes that trailed faint shadows across his cheeks. 

The two women adjacent to Sylvain dislodged their arms from one another, one with cropped hair stepping forward to give a demure curtsy. "Mercedes von Martritz," she chirped. "And my partner, Annette Fantine Dominic," she added, and the other girl - a fiery redhead with bright, clear eyes - gave a small wave to complement her sheepish smile.

"Byleth Eisner," said Byleth pleasantly. "I'm-"

"-a mercenary," interrupted Ingrid, voice smooth. "Felix recruited her. She'll be working with us for this mission."

Byleth cocked an eyebrow at Ingrid, who stared back pointedly, her expression carefully neutral. The unvoiced _do you really want a third round of questions_? was apparent. Wearily, Byleth nodded.

"I can hardly believe Felix made a friend at all." The quip immediately drew another rap of knuckles against Sylvain's arm. "Ow, geez! Lay off, Ingrid, it was a harmless observation. I'm gone not even a fortnight and he brings back a cute girl, can you really blame me?"

"Yes," deadpanned Felix and Ingrid in unison. 

Byleth bit back a laugh.

"Well geez, if I knew I'd been getting in your way this whole time, Fe, I would have-"

"Enough," snapped Felix with enough sharpness to sting, his whole body turning away in clear defiance, though his ears were tinged bright red.

Byleth cocked her head bemusedly. Was Felix actually embarrassed? She couldn't recall ever seeing him so defensive about anything, not since they met. Withdrawn and guarded, maybe, but...

Ingrid didn't seem remotely surprised at the exchange, however, observing the tit-for-tat with a hint of amusement. Sylvain didn't even flinch, shrugging the attitude off as though it were paltry rainwater sliding off a duck's wing. Perhaps this, too, was routine for them.

"Yeah, fine. Byleth, right? Can you help situate these three?" Sylvain jerked a head towards where Ashe, Annette and Mercedes were huddled with their belongings, now hovering uncertainly. "We brought some choice rations from the estate for lunch," he added with pointed flourish towards Ingrid, who immediately lit up.

They would set out once darkness had fallen - at least, that was what Ingrid had proposed over their meager breakfast of sliced apples and tea, but she had said it with such clear conviction that there was little argument to be had. 

It was originally Felix's idea. The bandits comprising Miklan's forces would be patrolling the main road in the evenings more heavily, particularly in the direction leading to his father's estate. Miklan might be brutish and arrogant, but not so much as to ignore the threat of the Margrave's retaliation. The man, it seemed, was a clash of wills in and of himself - someone who preferred scouting before fortifying, caution before action, and yet launched aggressive assaults when the former impulses lost. 

In their concentrated strike force, they could evade or dispatch the thinned forces surrounding the tower itself, especially if they were of roughly the same caliber as those on the road. His weakness seemed to be his tendency to underestimate his two partners, which was what made him so apt to feud with them when they "stole his thunder", as Felix put it with an unabashed sneer.

A fine drizzle had begun settling across the northern reaches of Faerghus, misting the landscape, while half-bloomed trees stretched against the white canopy sky with dark, skeletal branches, spread like inky cracks on glass.

They had time to kill before sundown, so they broke apart to whittle it away with various prep. Ashe had settled himself comfortably beneath a tree with a thick patch of newly-sprouted leaves to see to his arrow heads, while Annette curled up next to him with a complicated-looking tome. Ingrid, hunched over on a stump with her lance, ran a whetstone over the blade with single-minded concentration. Byleth had agreed to show an eager Mercedes to the river to fish an early dinner, patiently going through the steps of crafting a makeshift rod with a watchful eye. 

Felix and Sylvain leaned against one of the trees on the border of their small enclave, surveying the camp. Once the others were sufficiently occupied with their tasks, the former shot a reproachful look that didn't go unnoticed by the latter. "What?"

"You _know_ what I'm going to tell you." 

Sylvain grimaced. "Spare me. I don't need you to remind me what idiots we Gautiers are."

"We've learned to work around _that_ for a long while now." Felix's tone had an edge of humor to it at first, but it receded quickly back into solemnity. "I'm talking about the company you chose for us to keep today. Ashe's house is on barely-tolerable terms with the church, fine, but a church bishop? A mage of Castle Blaiddyd? Are you _trying_ to get us arrested?"

"They were sent to the old man's place," Sylvain shot back defensively. "What did you want me to do, refuse their aid and attract suspicion? Should I also grow a villainous mustache I could stroke on-cue?"

Felix looked stunned. " _Sent_ there? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Sylvain rubbed his forehead with an exhale, but his face kept its calm veneer as he glanced at Annette. "The church's eyes are on the holy relics, is what it means. Of course my father would cooperate, Felix. Why wouldn't he? You think he'd admit to crimes against the state by his derelict sons?"

Felix watched the mage as well, quickly averting his gaze when she looked up at them curiously. Then, quieter, "How much do they know?"

"They don't suspect _us_ of anything yet, if that's what you're worried about. Though Miklan sure as hell painted a nice, shiny target on us by association," scoffed Sylvain. Then, a little softer, eyes flickering to Felix, "We need to watch our steps from here on out. This last job was way too sloppy."

"Fat chance of that with Miklan running the show."

"I know," said Sylvain, rubbing his forehead. "I know. I'll talk to him. But Felix - the relic we stole, he wasn't upfront about what it is. We seriously fucked up."

Felix raised an eyebrow in question. 

"Look - the church probably wouldn't have butted in on my father's business if they weren't on high alert for holy relic thefts already. I was only able to suss it out because Annette and Mercedes kept talking about it in passing as a _high crime_."

"A high crime," repeated Felix, slowly. 

"I don't know where the fuck Miklan got his intel, but it wasn't originally from Castle Blaiddyd - no one was supposed to even _know_ about it. It was only just moved there for security after a string of attempted thefts, but it's usually kept at the church. In the Holy Mausoleum." Sylvain looked at him meaningfully. 

A slow-dawning sense of horror spread its way from Felix's gut, working through every vein and channel in his body. A holy relic of the _church_ meant-

"Fuck," he said, numbly.

"Yeah, _fuck_. I'd say we should _kindly leave it at their doorstep_ with an 'I'm very sorry' note, if we weren't in our current predicament." Sylvain craned his neck around Felix to his waist. "Where is it, anyway?"

"Byleth's got it," Felix responded automatically, and then winced.

"Byleth?" Sylvain gaped at him. "The newbie mercenary?"

Felix nodded grimly, wondering if he _should_ be regretting the decision - but the logic held, didn't it? "Miklan will target us, not her," he said, hoping his voice sounded certain. "And she's a capable warrior, as good as either of us. She's bested me before." 

It was the second time he had praised her skill so openly to others, but admitting defeat without resentment was new, tasted foreign and strange on his tongue. It certainly seemed to throw Sylvain for another loop, too, staring at him as though trying to work through a complex riddle, but Felix had no answers for him. Sylvain would surely see for himself in the fights to come; Felix did _not_ misjudge skill.

"And you trust her?" Sylvain asked, finally.

Hesitation. Then, quietly, "I do."

Sylvain let out a low whistle, leaning back against the tree again. 

Felix's eyes narrowed. "What."

"It's just rare for you to make friends, is all," Sylvain said with a shrug, now looking over at where the azure-haired girl was wrapping and knotting string around the end of Mercedes' freshly-carved rod. "She must be something special."

"She's a strange one," admitted Felix. "Different from any woman I've met so far." 

_Not in a bad way._ He watched her, too, as she laughed at something Mercedes had said, her voice pealing bright, and his own features softened slightly; then, he stiffened, the back of his neck prickling from attention. 

Sylvain was watching him with barely-restrained glee, biting his knuckles and boasting one of his telltale shit-eating grins. 

"What?" Felix asked, darkly. "Commission a damned painting if you want to immortalize me."

"I didn't even _say_ anything," said Sylvain, shoulders shaking with mirth; Felix had the distinct impression that if it wouldn't attract the entire camp's attention, he would be howling by now. He never looked more punchable in his miserable life. "I'm happy for you."

"I- there's nothing to be- wipe that insufferable look off your _face_ before I do it for you." The threat wasn't idle and Sylvain knew it, but it only seemed to fuel his enthusiasm.

"Look, Ingrid seems taken with her too! At this rate I'm sure I'll be next, she _is_ cute-"

His fist narrowly missed Sylvain, who ducked just in time for it to crack against bark, and then he was too late - Sylvain was already strolling away from him towards the center of the camp, chortling.

With some hesitance, he turned back to watch Byleth, and felt the irritation falter, warp into something else entirely, heat crawling up his neck, singeing his ears. Once his gaze snapped down to the relic leaning weightily against the line of her leg, however, the feeling faded in tandem with the slowing of his heartbeat, and a newfound sense of dread enveloped him instead, his stomach twisting into a nasty knot.

As if sensing the attention, she turned, cerulean eyes meeting amber, and she smiled at him furtively - a sweet, genuine thing.

Despite the building unease, and despite applying all the concentrated effort from every contrary bone in his body, it was, somehow, impossible not to return it.

  
***

  
"Like this," said Byleth, angling her arm back and swinging it overhead. 

Her line whizzed through the air like an arrow, before the twisted metal broke through the water's surface, the sound drowned out by the babbling of the current. It began languidly bobbing downstream until the line ran out, suspended and relatively taught. 

Satisfied, she switched hers with Mercedes, who handed her own off very carefully before wrapping her delicate fingers around the smooth-cut wood. "Thank you."

"Just wait for the tug," Byleth advised. "It'll be a tad different from the pull of the current once you acclimate to it. It's okay to just get a feel first for practice."

Mercedes nodded studiously, eyes glued to the water where the bait originally broke through, her rod gripped tight.

Byleth let her own fly to join her, casting a little further out into the depths, white foam swirling around deep aquamarine. They were not five minutes downstream from the camp, on a slightly elevated rocky section bordering the river, where they could dangle their legs freely over spears of cattails sprouting on the banks.

After a few minutes of companionable silence save for the babble of the water flowing below, something tugged on Mercedes' line. The woman, having relaxed her shoulders after a time, now started to attention.

"Slowly," said Byleth, and Mercedes tugged the line timidly - then, with more confidence, inching the catch closer. "Now."

She pulled the rod with surprising strength, and a white trout burst through the surface, its pale belly shimmering, before it landed squarely on their craggy area, flopping uselessly against stone.

"Perfect," praised Byleth. 

Mercedes beamed, cheeks flushing with pleasure. 

"First try, too. You catch on quick."

"You're a good teacher," replied Mercedes smartly, unhooking the metal where it had pierced the flesh and handing the now barely-squirming fish off to Byleth, who placed it to the side along with her own scored pile of catches. "I certainly wish I had you to teach me growing up."

Byleth laughed, a chiming sound, though she flushed a little at the words. "I doubt any noble would need to learn such skills, nor would I be qualified."

"I'm no noble," said Mercedes with a wave of her hand. "Well, not anymore. I'm in service to the church, so I'm not set to inherit."

"Oh." That did make sense - she certainly looked devout, adorned with her flowing skirts and silks and glittering accouterments. "You seem to carry yourself so properly - I meant no offense."

"None taken," Mercedes replied with a smile.

Hands still wrapped around her own rod, Byleth subtly glanced out of the corner of her eye at the other woman, who was currently focused on hooking another worm to the bent metal of her rod. 

She had yet to encounter any figures from the central church, or _any_ branch of the church, for that matter. It wasn't as though they ever took the opportunity to seek out her small neck of the woods - missionaries weren't privy to unmarked towers, after all.

Their presence was unavoidable in the history books that graced Byleth's bookshelves back home, however. Wars of attrition fought in the last thousand years littered their history, and the church's role was more often than not a guiding hand amidst occasional territorial squabbles. 

But her father never spoke of it - not favorably, at least - and curiosity got the better of her.

"Do you mind if I ask you some questions?" she said, finally. "I didn't really grow up around anyone from the church."

Mercedes blinked, regarding her for a moment with curiosity - as if such a thing were possible - and Byleth shifted awkwardly in her seat. Right. She was supposed to be a mercenary. How could she never encounter the largest organized religion in Fodlan?

But Mercedes merely answered, voice soft, "I would certainly be glad to answer any questions you may have." 

Byleth's shoulders relaxed. "What's it like, um. Living there? At the church."

"At Garreg Mach Monastery?" reiterated Mercedes, and Byleth nodded. "Oh, the grounds are quite lovely. It's right in the center of the three nations, you know, surrounded by mountains, so there's a great deal of nature. A good environment for continuous contemplation and worship, I suppose."

"You suppose?" 

Mercedes gave her a dimpled smile. "I follow the teachings, but I have plenty of contact with the outside, as it were. Mostly Faerghus, but I do travel quite regularly to the other branches in Fodlan."

"Wow. You travel all of Fodlan?" She had assumed the central church to be relatively isolated from the three nations to maintain neutrality, even if its penchant for favoring the Holy Kingdom above the other two was an open secret.

"Mm, mostly checking in on the regional churches," said Mercedes, tapping her chin. "Sometimes the different branches are hard for the central church to govern. I'm called the Left Hand of the Archbishop, reaching where she may not." 

"She can't go herself?" asked Byleth, brows furrowed. She'd read the Archbishop had more freedom of movement across borders than the Emperor, King, and Duke combined. 

"Oh, she could, but she is rather busy," said Mercedes. "Tending to the Holy Mausoleum and the crest stones in the crypts, and listening to the confessions of the devout. It takes up quite a lot of her day, so the delegation is necessary."

"Crest stones," echoed Byleth blankly. The illustrations she had seen had been black and white, as if nothing more than lumps of coal.

"Ah." Mercedes blinked. "If you don't know the church doctrine, I suppose you wouldn't know their true origins. They're the calcified hearts of the Goddess' children. Very holy artifacts!"

Something inside her viscerally churned, slow-building. A bizarre cocktail of surprise, yearning, affection, pain, swirling about in a dizzying whirlpool, until it had her head spinning from the sheer, overwhelming weight of it all. 

Byleth cleared her throat, not wanting to alert Mercedes. "Are they- why would such things be housed at the church? Is that not dangerous?" 

_Aren't crest stones instruments of power and corruption?_ Beasts heavily armored with scales, fangs dripping acid, throats bellowing inhuman screeches, the product of humans twisted by greed and hubris - they were so prominently featured in stories and historical accounts both, grim reminders of the folly and downfall of those who dared wield power beyond station.

"Oh, not at all! Crest stones have long been drained of power," said Mercedes, as if banishing into the ether a mere tall tale meant to frighten a child. "It's been centuries since the last one functioned, you know. They're just bygones."

It was hard to parse what exactly in Fodlan's history fell under the church's jurisdiction, especially when the religion revolved around beings that weren't nebulous allegories and metaphors for virtues, but living beings that once walked among mortals. But raising the question of _divine right_ to possess such artifacts seemed tricky, and she wasn't looking to have Mercedes shut her down just yet. "And it falls to the church to house them?"

Mercedes nodded placidly. "Archbishop Rhea takes their care very seriously. She is one of the last descendants with divine blood descended directly from the Goddess - it is her duty by birthright."

"I've only heard smatterings of the Archbishop," admitted Byleth. "I don't know much about her. What's she like?"

"Her personality?" Mercedes blinked, as though the question were novel. "Oh, she is very wise, very serene." Then, as an afterthought, "A little lonely. The weight of responsibility on her is quite heavy, but she commendably bears it without complaint. The faithful look to her for much guidance. It is all I and Seteth - her Right Hand - can do to relieve her burden."

Byleth hummed, gazing out at the river where her lure had bobbed suspiciously. "Can I ask why she sent someone so indispensable here?" At the strange look Mercedes was giving her, she added quickly, "You just come across as quite an asset, Mercedes - petty thieves seem below you."

Mercedes giggled. "Petty thieves try to ransack holy artifacts all the time. The Lance of Ruin is but one of such occasions as of late."

Byleth's brows furrowed. "Holy?"

"I- Felix didn't tell you?" 

"Tell me what?" said Byleth, mouth dry.

"The Lance of Ruin is holy." A pause. "Crest stones are the children's hearts. The holy relics - they are the bones. Surely he or Ingrid thought to say so?" 

Byleth's stomach suddenly felt full of _lead_. "I... Didn't really think to ask, so..."

"Noble families across Fodlan possess them due to their bloodlines - said to descend from the children - for safekeeping. Desecrating such items cannot be permitted by the church," Mercedes preached matter-of-factly, and clucked her tongue. "I've been loosely acquainted with Sylvain's family for years, so I knew Miklan was a loose canon, but I didn't expect him to loot his own _family_."

Byleth kept her eyes glued to the river, her pulse quickening. The swirling emotions in the back of her mind only seemed to intensify. "I guess being disowned made it a sore spot for him. Felix and Ingrid said it was an heirloom..."

"Oh, it is!" Mercedes fiddled with the end of her rod, wholly ignorant to the battle raging in the woman beside her. "For those with divine bloodlines, blessed by the Goddess. They're useless without a crest stone, though, so they're really just ceremonial."

Cinched at her hip and carefully wrapped in thick cloth, the weapon - bone-white, Byleth now realized, numbly - suddenly felt all the more weighty. 

"This is the second one stolen this moon, however, so the Archbishop would like to help nip this string of thefts in the bud, as it were."

"I see."

"And what of you, Byleth?" Mercedes now peered at her. "It rather worries me that the others didn't brief you on the nature of this mission before recruiting you. Are you quite well?"

"I don't think anyone accounted for my level of ignorance," murmured Byleth, eyes glazing over. "It's not exactly their fault."

A warm hand rested on her shoulder and Byleth turned, where Mercedes was watching her with a sympathetic expression. She really _was_ sweet, Byleth thought. Surely other members of the church as highly-ranked might be put-off by pointed lines of questioning and suspicious gaps in knowledge. But there was no judgment apparent in the woman's eyes - just patience and understanding. 

Byleth reached a free hand up and, hesitantly, rested it on hers. "It's okay. I want to help," she said quietly.

"You're a very earnest person, Byleth," said Mercedes kindly. "And there's no shame in not knowing. If you have any other questions, please don't hesitate to ask me." And then, as an afterthought, "Perhaps I'll scold the others for the unintentional omission."

Her mouth quirked. "That's unneccesary," she said. The image of an exasperated Felix getting a dressing down by such a mild-mannered woman was already funny enough on its own to lift her spirits.

Another pull on Byleth's line distracted them both, but served well to tug Byleth back to the present and away from the tumultuous stirring in her chest; she jerked her arm back expertly, drawing the catch closer as Mercedes watched in rapt attention - then, with a mighty pull, a golden fish broke through the surface, glittering in the stark, overcast light. 

Mercedes let out a cheer, clapping her hands together. "Wonderful!"

Byleth unhooked the catch and inspected it, holding it up carefully by the gills. "Eating it seems a waste. Don't these sell for quite a lot?" she mused.

"The taste is precisely why! If you sell it back to the village, Ingrid will most certainly cry," laughed Mercedes, and Byleth couldn't help return the infectious grin.

The blonde woman offered to take back their small pile of fish - enough for the evening to fuel them - to the camp, despite Byleth's protests and offers to help. "Take some time to yourself," she had said with a knowing smile, and gratitude bloomed in Byleth's chest as she watched her slight figure disappear through the woods. Mercedes was certainly more perceptive than she had given her credit for.

With both the physical and emotional space to indulge, she slowly unwrapped and freed the sword at her hip.

Analyzing it now in the stark light, her fingers running over the fine segments and ridges, it all suddenly made sense. The way it seemed to stir in her hands with strange familiarity, like greeting someone long-gone, long-missed. The closest feeling she could reference was that swell of affection in seeing her father bursting through the cavern to their enclave after a hunting trip or supply run.

She closed her eyes. She has had many dreams over the years, during which she saw, she presumed, through the eyes of the Goddess. But none were so vivid nor repetitive as those that featured home - the _Goddess'_ home. A lush valley, overfull with emerald vines and trees and vivid flora, the air thick and brimming with magic.

And her - the Goddess - surrounded by faces of family, by beautiful, ageless beings, creatures worthy of worship in Fodlan, that wars be fought in their name, in their honor. The way scholars described them spoke of something ancient and alien, made of wisdom and energy and light. But in Byleth's dreams, they seemed as human as anyone, flesh and blood and _bone_. 

Her hands tightened around the sword, which seemed to hum in response, and she felt a chasm of sorrow open in her with immeasurable depths, as if to descend would swallow her whole. _Who were you?_ she thought helplessly, and the sentiment echoed in the back of her mind, a muted, forlorn sense of confusion.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

She jerked out of her reverie, eyes snapping open and head swiveling.

Sylvain was standing a scant few meters away, his gaze flickering between her and the sword cradled in her lap.

She rubbed at her eyes hastily. "I didn't hear you. Sorry."

"That's quite all right," he said as he approached. "But are _you_?"

"I'm fine," she said, automatic. She's both said and thought it many times today, but it never felt so dry on her tongue as it did now. "What's up?"

"Oh, just wondering why my newest comrade is getting weepy over a national treasure."

Defensively, "Felix trusted me with it."

"I know," he said, holding his hands up in immediate surrender; once her posture relaxed, he lowered himself to perch to her side, one knee casually bent to hold his elbow while the other leg hung carelessly over the lip of the rock. "Relax. I was just checking in, since you didn't come back with Mercedes. If Felix thought you worthy enough of keeping it safe, well, I'm not going to object."

"That easy?" 

Sylvain shrugged. "I owe the guy too much to start doubting him now. He's got a good head on his shoulders, anyway." One corner of his mouth raised crookedly. "Even if it's a rather hot one."

That coaxed a smile from her. "What're you going to do about Miklan?"

Sylvain snorted derisively. "Oh, the usual. Knock him upside the head and hopefully drag him back to."

"I've heard the routine from Felix," she said. "Sounds pretty shitty."

"He's a pretty shitty brother," admitted Sylvain, pursing his lips. "But he's the only one I've got."

"Is that really enough of a reason?" Byleth asked, frowning. "Seems more trouble than he's worth."

She's overstepped boundaries, she realized, seeing the way his smile tightened infinitesimally; he looked as though he were struggling to bite back a snide comment. But he merely replied, voice light, "It's a sibling thing."

"I suppose I wouldn't know," she admitted, hoping she sounded sufficiently humbled. 

"I'm not saying it's logical, but some things override logic," he said with a shrug. "Without Felix's help, maybe I'd have a harder time of it."

"I'm glad you have him. His loyalty seems hard-earned."

"It is," he said, the smile on his face now relaxing into something genuine. "He's not a bottomless well of support, mind you. He refuses grifts in his father's territory, and Ingrid's. He just protects us, in whatever way he's capable. Didn't want a repeat of Duscur and what he went through."

 _Duscur_ rang new, but she wracked her brains for another distant piece of information she had logged more recently - finding it after some sifting, where it had been very carefully filed away. "His brother?"

"Yeah." He was watching her now. "Died in battle."

She hummed in acknowledgment.

"Not curious?"

She met his gaze and shrugged, her emotions shuttered. "I'd rather hear it from Felix directly, when he trusts me with it."

"When, huh?" He laughed incredulously, running a gloved hand through his vivid locks. "You really must be something special."

Byleth raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I would normally say not to hold your breath, but he _is_ pretty cozy with you. It's surprising, is all."

"We're friends," she said pointedly, but then immediately paused with a strange uncertainty. He _felt_ like a friend - _scrapes and bruises, sitting side by side_ \- but she had never really asked him outright. _Should_ she? Did people ask each other to be friends, the way Ingrid had asked it of her? She didn't have enough reference as to how nobles _became_ friends with commoners. Knowing them, there must be a whole blasted routine of it.

As if hearing the entire monologue voiced aloud, Sylvain chortled. "Goddess, you really are new to this, huh? It's not that complicated. I'm sure Felix feels the same." 

Byleth's cheeks flushed. "Whatever," she said, turning her head from him stubbornly to glare at the churning river beneath their feet.

"I'm just teasing, Byleth," he said with a grin, reaching over to ruffle her hair. She shot him a supremely unimpressed look. "You're both beyond easy to tease. Anyway, Miklan won't try to play the hero the way Glenn did - bit too much of a coward. I'm sure Felix will tell you about it eventually. It usually takes _ages_ to unlock the higher echelons of that friendship - dunno how you gamed the system." He stroked his chin in faux-thought.

"I nearly stabbed him when we met."

"Ah, that _is_ the way to a Fraldarius' heart," he chuckled.

Ignoring the bait, she continued, "I just thought he was another brigand, to be fair. I've encountered little else."

He seemed to sober somewhat at that, considering. "Yeah, I got the jist of your situation from him. I don't really have a problem with you joining up with us if you're as good with a sword as he says, but is that honestly what you want? It's not going to be very fun, you know, for a first romp in the big wide world."

"Isn't _this_ my first romp?" she said wryly. "Besides, I imagine watching the three of you bicker is plenty entertaining."

"You have me there," he said, grin turning sheepish.

"Think Miklan would even let me in?" 

Sylvain barked a short laugh. "Think of this mission as your audition - impress him by whooping his ass. If it worked on Felix, it'd work on just about anyone."

***

  
A break in the clouds by early evening ensconced the campsite in a warm glow, sunlit beams of copper and gold chasing away the afternoon chill. With spirits marginally lifted and with double the members for lively conversation, their early dinner was a far rowdier affair than all the last fortnight's combined.

It was hard for Byleth to keep track of every fire-side tale. Ashe regaled her with anecdotes of his younger sister, safely nestled in the western reaches of Faerghus under the watchful eye of their shared guardian, with deep affection in his evergreen eyes. Annette illustrated with exaggerated hands the steepness of the cliffs of Fraldarius from her most recent excursion under the crown, gesturing wildly for the great canyons and ravines carving deep into the earth at their base. Mercedes chipped in with her visits to her younger brother in Enbarr, the glittering jewel of the Adrestian empire, describing the cobbled streets lined with trees painted crimson and safflower in the autumn. Sylvain and Ingrid bickered without malice in the background between bites of cured meat and sips of ale from the Gautier estate.

It was markedly different from those dinners with Felix back in that sandy beach tavern, another sort of cacophony from the clattering plates and raucous laughter punctuating their private, low conversations. Perhaps it was a matter of having the focus so frequently placed upon herself by six pairs of curious eyes, rather than one focused gaze amidst a sea of indifferent strangers. She was hardly accustomed to being the center of attention.

Despite the multitudes of distraction, it took Felix minutes to down his food - not even savoring the roasted golden filets, delectably marbled and running with juice and fat with each bite - before he briskly stood. He unceremoniously tossed his scraps into the fire, and approached her to spar. 

Byleth opened and closed her mouth in rapid succession; her own fish was hardly half-eaten. "Right now?" she said dejectedly, looking at her food with barely-concealed longing. He probably ate far finer meals than this in his family's estate, to be sure, but she couldn't help but sniff at the sheer injustice of it. 

"Stop thinking with your stomach. It'll be there when you get back," he said dryly. 

Byleth merely observed him for a moment. His face betrayed nothing outright, but there was a pinch to his eyes marring his smooth features, and a tenseness in his jaw. At the pointedness of her gaze, though, he let out a huff, crossing his arms and breaking contact to stare into the distant clearing, his dark hair winking beneath the orange of the sunset. Knowing Felix, he intended to lace the training with conversation, but was he always so damned evasive? 

"Fine," she grumbled, placing her fish delicately beside herself and moving to stand. The others hadn't seemed to take much notice, too absorbed in one of Ashe's stories - something of haunted forests in Leicester - but she could feel Sylvain's trained eyes on her as she followed Felix away.

He brought them further north, away from the river, by a hill lush with a grove of olive trees, flowering yellow and fragrant on leathery, gnarled trunks and branches.

"'Til mortal strike?" he said, already drawing his sword from his hip.

"Sure." Her fingers grazed over the relic where it was once again bound in cloth, briefly, before she passed over it for her rapier. "You don't just want to talk?"

" _You're_ the one who looked like you needed an escape from chatter," he said, cocking an eyebrow.

Byleth started, her mouth falling open, and he raised his chin up challengingly, as though daring her to contradict him. 

"I guess I was a little overwhelmed," she admitted, unsheathing her blade. She felt Felix's eyes on her for much of their time at the camp - nothing new, he more often than not tried to get a read on her, even in their leisure - but she hadn't expected him to be so attuned to her feelings, wasn't sure what to make of it. "It wasn't bad. Just a bit..."

"Much," he said, as if it was obvious, an easy thing to understand. She felt her chest prickle warm at that, before he lunged forward to attack.

Weaving through the trees to avoid his blows was perfectly within her wheelhouse, but Felix was just as nimble as she was, and it very quickly became a game of cat and mouse. She had yet to make a strike, preferring her usual evasive maneuvers to tire him out, though she knew he was well-aware of her tactics by now; still, he made no attempts at cornering her. He simply followed, treading quietly on the hard dirt with precise footwork, as though she were pulling him to shadow her steps with an invisible string. 

Her eyes narrowed. Was he _letting_ her lead him around?

As if answering her question, he shot her a smirk; she glared back, adjusted her footing, and launched herself forward to clash steel with steel.

He laughed, an utterly delighted sound, and it reverberated through her; Felix was always ferocious and single-minded during their duels, but he also looked so comfortable, so in his element now, and her own face relaxed into a crooked smile. 

He swung his sword in a low arc to catch hers at its base, metal scraping metal, and she spun away just as it slid up the length of her rapier towards her neck, slipping behind cover again. 

"I can't imagine how you'll do when you don't have the terrain to your advantage," he taunted, following where she was leading him further, where the land had begun sloping to higher ground; though the sun was still visible over the treetops, under the dappled cover of forestry their surroundings became a patchwork of light and shadow.

"All terrain is to my advantage. I have a pretty good ace-in-the-hole," she teased back, and then paused momentarily to consider. Was that blasphemous to say?

Felix didn't seem to think so - he merely grunted in acknowledgment, digging his leather soles into the dirt to make another aggressive lunge where her voice had given her position away. But Byleth had already silently darted uphill, zig-zagging through the trees; where she flitted to-and-fro, she could occasionally make out his figure hot on her heels, a fiery gleam in his eye where she had sparked competitiveness. 

By the time they had crested over the hill, she realized the trees had broken way to an open clearing, leaving her vulnerable. Felix wasn't wrong - she _did_ prefer terrain that could lend itself to stealth and natural cover, where she could make up for her lack of muscle with tactics and speed. But when she was visible and pitched against foes as light on their feet as she was, it meant having to go on the offensive. 

"Did you scout this area out beforehand?" she wondered aloud, lowering her sword arm slightly.

He gave her an extraordinarily smug look.

"Brat," she muttered, flipping her rapier deftly, as she begun to circle him; he mimicked the motion, fingers gripping the hilt of his broadsword loosely. 

She eyed him, waiting for her opening - he was never really patient enough to dance around an attack too long. Then, to her surprise, he spoke up. "Be careful with what you talk about around the others."

It threw her off, a slight pause in her step as she considered his words, but she swiftly recovered. "What are you talking about?"

"Ingrid knows who we are," he said, eyes still glued to her as they moved around one another, "what we do. But the others don't. And they don't know we stole that sword. If they found out, it would be treasonous _not_ to apprehend us."

Ah. "So you don't want to put them in the position of having to turn you in," she ventured, the corner of her mouth twitching.

Felix's eyes widened a fraction at that. It could be the color of the sunset on his cheeks, but they certainly looked redder. "I-"

"It's okay to care about friends, Felix," she said, twirling her sword again. "I like you all, too."

Something seemed to click at her words, and he flushed even _deeper_ ; she raised an eyebrow, a silent question, and he cleared his throat, still mirroring her. "Whatever."

Now it was _her_ turn to laugh. "I wouldn't say anything about stealing a priceless treasure to people who work with the authorities, Felix. I'm not that stupid."

His head jerked up at that, his expression a mixture of fury, indignation, and something else she couldn't quite parse. "I don't think you're stupid-"

There was his fatal misstep, and Byleth wasted no time in taking advantage of his sudden distraction, surging forward in a flash of blue and silver. Felix barely got his own sword up in time to parry her, cursing under his breath. Her moves were tempestuous, a flurry of strikes that kept him on his guard, and within seconds he felt his back press against one of the olive trees, effectively trapping him, and then with a final swing her blade came to rest, very gently, against his throat.

He scowled. "That was dirty."

Her teeth glinted in the low light, a cheshire grin. "Since when have you cared about fighting fair? Besides, you're the one who tripped up."

Felix exhaled through his teeth, still glowering at her, before letting out a resigned, "I yield."

Byleth dropped her sword and beamed at him - not her usual placid smile, but one of her rare ones that actually met her eyes, which now twinkled. "Didn't have to use my little party trick after all."

"I suppose not," he said, sheathing his own sword with a grumble.

"You really think I'd give you and Sylvain up, after everything?" 

She was staring up at him curiously, leaning forward. He swallowed noisily. "No."

"Then what gives?"

"I just..." He struggled to collect his words, as though they were slipping through his fingers. "I didn't want you to get arrested," he settled on, lamely. "You just barely got out of self-imposed exile."

"Aww, you care," she joked, reaching up to pat his arm - but he scowled, jerking the arm back and out of her reach, and she blinked up at him, barely betraying her surprise save for the slight widening of her eyes.

"Can you take this seriously, please?" he snapped, voice rough, and the confused look she gave him only made him gnash his teeth together furiously. "If you're in this with us, if you get caught with us, arrested-" 

Ah. _That_ was why he brought her out here; a simple enough concern. "What, they'll lock me up?" she said drolly, crossing her arms. "What a novel concept."

"They'll have you hanged." He spit the words as though they were poison. "Is that _novel enough_ for you?"

Her brows knitted together. "Felix..."

"I shouldn't have let you come with us."

" _Excuse_ me?"

"I should have sent you off when Ingrid showed. I shouldn't have even brought you out of Fhirdiad."

Byleth pinched the bridge of her nose with one hand. "If you're already looking for another a fight, Felix, you'll have to wait until we get to Miklan. He'll oblige you."

"I'm not-" he snarled.

"You are! You're picking fights about hypotheticals. You don't know what's going to happen, and it's pointless and distracting to speculate about worst-case scenarios."

"It's not pointless. You don't know _what_ any of this means!" His hand pointed, almost accusingly, at the sword at her hip, as though he hadn't placed it there himself. "You don't know the gravity of what we've _done_ , what that thing _is_. You would have been better off-"

"-shut away for the rest of my life?" 

Byleth's voice had turned to ice. 

Felix froze.

"I know what a holy relic is, Felix. Is your opinion so low of me to think I wouldn't figure it out?"

"No!" he cut in indignantly, his own features twisting. "But there's more at stake here than a stupid _relic_. You don't understand." 

The disappointment was bone-deep with those loathsome words. How many times had Jeralt echoed the very same, no matter the older she got, the more vicious and belligerent her tantrums? And that admittedly was what they were, tantrums by a teenager screaming until her throat was rubbed raw, flinging barbed insults with wild abandon that never stuck in her father's thick hide. 

"I _understand_ ," she continued, and she could have well been holding her blade to his throat again with the cool steel in her voice, "that I am ignorant in many ways. That the intricacies of Fodlan's politics may be lost on me. But I will not allow you to treat me like a child. I'm not helpless, nor am I _defenseless_. I've been on my own and survived that way far longer than any of you have or could." 

Because looking back with the clarity adulthood afforded her, she still stubbornly held fast that it was Jeralt who hadn't understood, in the end. He hadn't seen beneath the bluster and bravado that she was secretly, desperately afraid. That if she didn't spread her wings then, they would be too atrophied once he finally, eventually, inevitably left her behind. And then, with a suddenness that scarred, he _had_. 

"I know that," Felix retorted, his own voice diametrically rising in anger to her deliberate calm, "I know! But I'm- fuck, it's not about capability or even _strength_! Sometimes strength does _jackshit_ , and I'm trying to _protect_ you, Byleth-" 

Already Byleth was geared up and prepared to fire back with more bitter ammunition, because how many times can she beat him into the ground before he stopped _underestimating her_ , but something in his tone made her pause. 

It wasn't demeaning. It was _pleading_ , tinged with frustration. This was a language unique to Felix, trying his damnedest to communicate, and ripping himself apart in his failure. And in the short time she knew him, she had never heard him _beg_. 

Byleth latched onto that, crystal-clear eyes fixed resolutely on his, where she could see a chaotic storm raging, muddled and swirling. She was hardly experienced with reading others' feelings - Jeralt had always been so guarded with his own when it came to anything personal, and Felix was hardly different. 

But the vulnerability in his expression now was striking. Had he ever been so open as this, even lacking the words? With something turbulent in those molten eyes, desperate and fierce, and very nearly swallowed whole by an abyss, they were so _dark_ -

"Oh," she breathed, dropping her sword; it clattered quietly against the grass.

And without missing a beat, she reached up to haul him down to her.

It wasn't a good kiss, objectively. She had never kissed anyone in her life - just as most things that eluded her and dangled out of reach, she settled for entertaining at a distance, how it might feel, with no reference other than secondhand accounts. Her fingers would trace the lines from hardly-academic books in her tower she stumbled upon over the years, fiction Jeralt would unwittingly bring home from Fhirdiad without glancing beyond the covers. How she would reread those spellbinding sentences, over and over and _over_ , how she imagined the heat of it, the sounds, the pressure-

Reality never did play out like the stories, though, and it was all she could do to plant her lips on his, clumsy and close-mouthed and nearly missing entirely. The nervousness came home to roost, and she wondered how badly she might be doing, how terribly she might have misjudged that look. Because this is what you do when a man looks at you like _that_ , isn't it? 

But some of it was wrong, she knew. The sharp inhale through his nose as she drew near, how he was frozen and stiff against her. His mouth could have been made of marble, for all they moved. 

She drew back, apprehensively. Okay, it wasn't good then, _fine_ , expected, but it left _her_ dizzy and blushing all the same. And she raised her gaze, meekly, to meet his, a question.

He was staring down at her, face stricken, _wrong it was wrong she was wrong_ , the doubt that seeded itself now sprouted with wild abandon. 

"Shit. _Shit._ I'm sorry, Felix, I-"

He cut her off when he lunged forward, sealing his mouth to hers with a snarl.

And, well, maybe Felix didn't know what the hell he was doing, either, because it was now more of a fight than a kiss, teeth-clacking and growls, one hand tangling in her dark hair and pulling at the strands, and that wasn't quite the same as the kisses she'd read. The fire in it was so wonderfully and characteristically _him_ that she found herself wrapped up in it anyway. Overeager, she pressed against him, meeting the hard line of his body with hers and sliding her fingers deeper into those inky locks to scratch her nails against his scalp. 

He groaned at that, a deep, gravelly sound, and she couldn't help but feel a spike of pride. 

"What," he demanded, the words breathless and sharp - still he didn't stop kissing her, touching her, hand dipping by the small of her back, slipping a leg between hers, looking thoroughly pleased when she let out a gasp - and she realized she was smiling against his lips.

Truth be told, she hadn't been ignorant to the vague tension that seemed to roil under the surface since they first clashed - the _something_ that seemed to surface every time her sword met his, as though each battle was a spark to some greater ignition, whatever friendship they had slowly built over the last few weeks serving as the kindling. She had never felt this way before, not in any other battle, not with anyone else. Not during the occasional skirmish back home, nor on the road since she left. 

She _felt._ Acutely, in the way her stomach lurched, when his calculated eyes were focused and trained on her, intensely searing, as if there was nothing else in the world that mattered. And she was pretty damn sure Felix felt it, too. 

But she still hadn't expected this to happen, not really. Because approaching any frank discussion of feelings made Felix clam up, and she was too apprehensive to ruin her very first companionship with misplaced assumptions. What did she know about romance? What did _he?_

 _More than he let on_ , she thought faintly, when he gently bit down on her lower lip and pulled with another low rumble, the sound and sensation both shooting through her like a lightning bolt. 

She should have realized that what stopped her might have been stopping him, too. Maybe they were _both_ cowards, in that.

He was still waiting for her to answer him, impatience bleeding through in the tension of his grip. Would it ruin the mood? She didn't want that. She was really quite liking the way his breathing came so ragged, the way he tilted her head with surprising gentleness to deepen the contact, and the hard, thrumming beat in his chest pressed against her. 

She broke away briefly to catch her breath, swallowing and settling on, "I _like_ you, dummy."

And still, even with the statement vaguely undercut by the insult, Felix choked, his face rapidly flushing a brilliant red visible in the low light of the sinking sun. 

Byleth didn't bother hiding her snort. _That_ embarrassed him? Not the fact that he had his tongue in her mouth not ten seconds ago?

"I-"

"Oh, shut up," she groaned, tugging at the collar of his coat to pull him back down; she really did _not_ want to deal with his weird emotional constipation now. He went with little resistance, mouth opening and pliant and so _soft_ , softer than she could have imagined. She moved on blind instinct, pressing her hips against his insistently, hoping whatever she was doing felt good for him, because it sure as hell felt great for her. Judging by the gasp that escaped him with the feel of her, it was doing _something_. 

At least until he broke away, panting. "Byleth, I-"

Well, if he insisted on talking, she could keep herself busy. She trailed her lips down instead, pressing them to his jawline, darting her tongue out briefly, coyly, and he shuddered.

"Fucking _look at me,_ " he ground out, tugging at her hair again.

She pulled away then, flushed and suddenly uncertain, to meet piercing amber. It really was her favorite color at this point.

"I like you, too," he breathed.

Byleth stared at him.

"Oh."

He bristled immediately. "What do you mean, _oh?"_ he snapped, clearly affronted.

"I just..." She blinked, licking her lips. His eyes darted down to track the movement, before sliding back up. "I didn't expect you to actually... say so." 

"Well, I _do_." How in the world did he make a confession sound so haughty? But there was certainly that touch of vulnerability again from earlier, how he swallowed thickly, how his eyes lowered to the ground. As if it had taken him tremendous effort to say anything. And maybe it had.

"Okay," she said softly, moving one hand down to cup his cheek, and his proverbial hackles seemed to lower slightly as he leaned into it. "Okay." 

She stood on her tiptoes to brush her lips against his once more, feather-light, with the sensation of wings unfurling in her chest. He didn't hesitate to press back, slower, more deliberate, and she pulled away after a few beats to bury her face in the crook of his neck contentedly. His hands, now disentangled from her hair, seemed to hover uncertainly; they eventually settled, almost bashfully, on her waist.

"I don't think you're helpless," he muttered, his voice slightly muffled against her hair. 

"I know. I shouldn't have said that."

"This is- I'm just-" 

_Trying to protect you_. His choice of words barely scratched the surface of the sentiment, but she thought of Sylvain's words to her earlier, _in whatever way he's capable_ , and carefully filed them away in her new but slow-growing shelf of Felix-isms. "I get it."

"And I _know_ how strong you are," he said.

"I'd hope so," she said, bringing them back to levity. "I did just beat you."

" _Byleth_." 

"I promise I'll endeavor not to end up beneath a guillotine," she said, voice quieting. "But I'm here, with you, for better or for worse."

He tightened his grip, but didn't retort. That was probably as close to a capitulation as she was going to get from him.

"We're good, then?" she pressed.

Felix huffed, eyes sliding closed. "Yeah. We're good." 

She smiled into the collar of his coat. "Good." 

They didn't hold hands. Not after breaking apart, nor when traipsing back down the hill on their way back to the camp in companionable silence. They arrived just as the others were draining the dregs of their drinks, while Sylvain drew out a rough sketch of Miklan's hideout, and could easily have been disheveled from sparring.

Byleth took her seat to matter-of-factly finish her fish, licking the grease off her fingers with gusto, and Felix sat opposite her, silently running an oily rag along the edge of his blade. And if Byleth's breath came a little sharper whenever Felix's eyes found hers over the fire, or if Felix's fingers twitched unconsciously when Byleth spoke up softly to ask Ingrid for seconds and thirds, who would notice?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sylvain, dry heaving at this juvenile courting ritual: me, you absolute ROMANCE-BUMPKINS
> 
> i know this is a fantasy fic but [this is what i imagined byleth wearing while fishing](https://twitter.com/lyr_ae/status/1295932942695272448?s=20). like, in my heart or whatever
> 
> mercedes' title is a reference to dragon age! honestly, catherine or shamir would fit the role of the Left Hand of the Divine, because... church-sanctioned murder, ha ha... but there are so many war criminals in this game that it didn't seem that important to make it a specific role, so consider this version of it relatively toothless, and more that of an ambassador.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to have so much more time to write, but they increased my shifts at work nnnnnnoooooooo. Might help if I didn't seem to make each chapter an eternity long but it seems to routinely get out of hand. Without a beta to mitigate my everything, I think I am just gonna be... like this.
> 
> Thank you to whoever is still reading. ;v;

***

Conand Tower was little more than a crumbling ruin, a relic of Faerghus originally made for housing prisoners of war in wars that never came to be. Relationships between Faerghus and the Alliance were rarely strained, neither inclined towards starting territorial disputes when the houses bordering them were often linked by blood, marriage, or both. And so the tower stood - until it barely did.

It was made to look intimidating, Byleth imagined. The dark spire loomed over the thick treetops in its namesake's territory, as though surveying the lands over which it presided. But whatever ominous aura Faerghus attempted to instill in its design was undermined by years of neglect. 

Mud caked the base, from which sprouted vines that twined around it in chaotic spirals; weeds sprouted in cracks between the stones where the grout hadn't properly filled in the gaps. The wooden doors seemed as though they would collapse with a single touch, softened by rainwater and mold. Even the curtain wall framing the perimeter hadn't held over the years, now no more than a mismatched and jagged circle of crooked stones curving sloppily around the tower.

The groundskeeper, long buried, would surely have wept. Terrible even for squatters, but that didn't stop travelers weary from battle and poor in coin from settling in for the night, nor the bandits that would follow them inside for easy pickings. 

"They call it the Tower of Black Winds," Annette had supplied, when it came into view.

"Why the nickname?" Byleth had asked.

"Sounds scarier, maybe? The stories say you can hear the winds howling from the top when a storm approaches. But I think any tower will do that, haha."

"You're telling me," said Byleth, lips quirking. Hers was never less hospitable than when a squall would roll through Fhirdiad, rain pounding its sides in relentless sheets so loud she was almost certain the windowpanes would shatter.

Ashe had scouted ahead not an hour prior, rendezvousing just a mile out and reporting half a dozen swordsmen and several magic users on either side of the entrance, beyond the barricade. The former seemed to be equipped with armor recognizably poached from Faerghan soldiers of various lower ranks; the latter were less identifiable, donning dark, billowing robes. 

It would be a simple dispatch, in theory, with the seven of them. But there was no telling how many enemies were nestled within the tower's walls, and a loud enough skirmish would sound the alarm. So the group had split into three teams on Byleth's advice, hitting different marks to form a half-circle around the tower - Ingrid and Sylvain playing distraction and flanking the sides, Felix and Byleth hidden in the brush, and Ashe, Annette and Mercedes scattered from a distance for projectiles and support. 

It felt like a true test of strategy now, jumping from checkers to chess in a single bounding leap, and the anticipation and excitement of it thrummed in every nerve and cell in Byleth's body. 

Despite her neutral expression, it was clear Felix could feel it rolling off her in waves; even shoulder-to-shoulder when crouched in shrubbery, he shot her a reproachful look. 

"What?" she asked innocently, returning his glare with a toothy smile. "I'm just excited to meet Miklan."

"Excited to clock him on the head, more like," he said dryly. "I'm with you on that, at least."

"Come on. It looks like the thing will fall over if I so much as sneeze on it, but it's still my first siege, you know?"

"Keep it in your pants."

"Keep it in _your_ pants. I can tell how excited you are to fight," she said, waggling an eyebrow. Felix rolled his eyes.

A high whistle sounded, in two quick bursts - Ashe's signal. They dug the soles of their boots into the soft dirt accordingly and in unison, hands on their hilts.

Sylvain, pressed low against the outer wall on the eastern side, tossed a stone where it clattered into view. 

Some muffled murmurs and grunts sounded in the distance.

Catching Byleth's eye, Sylvain winked and tossed another.

The unmistakable draw of steel, then; after a pause, the rusted hinges of the wooden doors creaked open just barely, until a single, ill-fitting barbute warily poked out.

Felix let out his own whistle, low and short, and both the unfortunate man, along with the doors sandwiching him, unceremoniously burst into flame.

The panicked scream drew out the other brigands, two more bursting through the cindering remains of the outer door with shouts muffled by billowing, acrid smoke; Sylvain and Ingrid wasted no time bounding forward in a flurry of crimson and periwinkle, lance and axe swinging. 

Felix and Byleth darted forward in the pandemonium, pressed low to the ground on either side of the outer wall. Byleth sniffed the air, momentarily dazed and disoriented, before she realized the strange scent's origin; Ashe's oil-tipped arrows had burned through the cloth of one of the brigands Ingrid had disarmed, now sunken deep into their flesh. 

Felix nudged her, snapping her back to attention.

The two mages on either side of the tower's entrance hadn't noticed them yet, but they hadn't moved from their positions at all, either. One seemed to be muttering under their breath.

The other languidly flicked a finger towards Ingrid.

_"Move!"_

Byleth's scream pierced through the air; both the mage's and Ingrid's head swiveled towards her. 

Then the latter's jerked up, where half a dozen glowing spikes, hovering overhead, were poised to skewer her. 

_"Ingrid!"_

Sylvain crashed into her as the spikes converged, shoving her out of the way; Ingrid stumbled, momentarily blinded, from the line of fire.

And suddenly Felix was gone from Byleth's side, rematerializing behind one of the mages. He sliced cleanly across their back in a diagonal slash with a snarl, blood splattering the ground and seeping into the dirt; they went down with a groan.

That spurred Byleth to move. She cracked the butt of her rapier against the head of a brigand in her path, kicking his unconscious body deftly to the ground. 

The other mage's chanting had grown louder, voice gravelly, their eyes now fixated on her.

She launched herself, knowing the seconds were precious and few; they accosted her with bursts of glowing light, which she spun around to sidestep, slowly reducing the gap between them. One shot grazed her leg, burning through the fabric of her pants with a sickly green ooze.

She hissed at the contact, though she didn't dare look down.

One, two, three steps to close the distance. She slashed across their chest with little resistance; they let out a strained gurgle, blood dribbling down their chin in a thin rivulet, before they collapsed in a heap of dark robes.

Byleth panted, glancing around her while regaining her bearings. All the other brigands were either knocked out or dead on the ground littered with discarded weapons. 

The adrenaline of the fight slowly receded. 

Then came the pain.

"Byleth!"

She fell to one knee with a wince, biting back a groan. Almost immediately, a soothing glow replaced the toxic-looking green, and she chanced looking down to see her own festering flesh, nearly rotted to the bone - _well that's morbidly fascinating_ \- slowly knitting itself together. 

"Stay right there," instructed Mercedes, who had been carefully stepping over errant swords and slow-growing pools of blood as she made her way over. "You were hit with a Mire spell. Let me heal it directly."

"What's a Mire spell?" asked Byleth faintly, sighing in relief at the pale green glow of Mercedes' magic ensconcing her leg.

Annette had padded over as well, brows knitted in concern. "It's Dark magic. Poisonous. Could get into your bloodstream if it's not treated immediately."

"Is that... Unusual?"

"Not necessarily unheard of," said Annette, gaze flickering to the mage's body, "but definitely not something some random brigands would know. And this was pretty strong stuff."

"Aren't there merc mages, too?" mumbled Byleth, gaze flickering from her leg to the mage's body.

"There are, but these kinds of tomes are hard to come by if you don't have academic dispensation. These guys don't _look_ like scholars to me..." Annette strode over to the body, crouching to her knees. "These robes aren't standard Kingdom, either."

"Maybe Miklan hired from the Empire?"

"Unlikely," said Felix, who had materialized behind her, his expression grim. "We don't fuck around in the Empire. Too expensive for mediocre quality."

"My father said the Ashen Wolves were pretty good back in the day."

"And notoriously have their hands full with contracts. I don't think these assholes are allied with anyone," Felix said, gaze flickering back to the corpse. 

"Well, it's definitely sketchy," said Annette, who looked up at Mercedes to share a meaningful look. Mercedes' lips thinned.

"He's had sketchy contacts for a while now. I just didn't know to what extent." Sylvain's voice interrupted them as he and Ingrid approached. He was rubbing at his shoulder with a grimace, where one of the spikes had pierced him, blood oozing beneath his glove; a watery-eyed Ingrid was glaring stubbornly at her feet, biting her lip. 

Mercedes stood with a yelp, rushing over with her staff.

"A mysterious mage," mused Byleth. "Well. I suppose we'd better be on our guard." Hesitantly, then, "What do you think, Mercedes?"

Mercedes blinked, her staff's glow fading as Sylvain's skin reformed, smooth and unbroken. "Me?"

"It's Dark magic. Isn't that diametrically opposed to Faith?" 

The expression on Byleth's face was mild, almost uninterested, but the implication clearly wasn't lost on Mercedes, who met her gaze steadily. 

"It isn't entirely," Mercedes admitted. "Most mages learn the theory, at the very least. But Annette is right, in that this was far stronger than expected, and I have my suspicions." 

"But you'd rather not voice them until you're sure?"

Mercedes nodded grimly.

"Fair enough," said Byleth, who stretched her leg out, fingers grazing the burned edges of the fabric of her pants. "Thanks for patching me up. I think I'm good to go."

Off to the side, Ingrid, who had been prodding gingerly at the shoulder beneath the gnarled and twisted metal of Sylvain's armor, let out a satisfactory noise at Mercedes' handiwork. 

The inner door to the tower didn't protest the intrusion, rusty hinges creaking as the group slipped inside, one by one.

***

Given the state of the outside, Byleth wasn't sure why she had expected the interior to be any more intact. Puddles of water indented the uneven granite floors at the very base level, and the smell of old furniture rotten with mildew wafted through the chambers. The only signs of life were the flames of oil-dipped torches occasionally lining the walls, flickering as they traipsed past and casting deeper shadows in their wake.

Annette called to them from further down one of the hallways, waving emphatically. "Staircase!"

The stairs, arranged in an ornate spiral, stretched to the very top of the tower, distant and dizzying. Would it collapse on them were the earth to shake? 

Sylvain, however, seemed unconcerned, eyes focused and jaw set as he began the climb, fingers twitching around his axe. 

Ingrid followed, her eyes trained on his back, and the others fell in line.

Byleth lagged behind, running her hands along the walls as she ascended. These, too, were caked with dust. Miklan had clearly not thought himself to be sequestered here long enough to make the place _remotely_ livable. Moonlight streamed through clouded windows, glass cracked in pale spider webs, sills chipped, and some of the inlaid stones on the stairs wobbled with each precarious step.

"It wasn't always this bad," said a low voice next to her.

Byleth turned, startled, to meet Felix's amber eyes; he had opted to fall in step with her without her noticing. 

"No?"

Felix crossed his arms, eyes roaming over the dilapidated state of things. "I used to come here on dispatches with Glenn, back when Dimitri and I were his squires."

The name rattled around in Byleth's head for a moment. "Your brother."

Felix grunted.

Byleth hummed. "Dealing with squatters?"

"And bandits. As if there was anything worth pilfering in this dump."

"Now, now. Some of the mushrooms growing in the corners are probably good for at least several different poultices. Among other recreational uses."

He stretched an arm out behind her shoulders, face drawing close, and Byleth felt her heart leap into her throat for an instant, her breath hitching; but it merely brushed past her so his hand could scrape against the wall, too.

He withdrew it to stare at his glove, now caked in grime.

Byleth stared at him.

"But it wasn't always this bad," he repeated, expression drawn. "Clearly, no one's been checking in since I left Fraldarius. Not my father, nor Ingrid's. They might as well tear the place down."

"That seems like a waste of good real estate."

"You call this good?" he said, mouth quirking.

"Give me a couple days," she quipped, "and I can polish and wax and mop and shine up."

"Pass," Felix said with a smirk, nudging her to keep moving.

Byleth eyed him as she followed him up the next set of stairs, wondering if it was worth prying. Felix had brought it up of his own volition, but if she pressed too much she would risk him shutting her out. 

Instead, she settled on, "So you and the prince were both squires to your brother, then? Did you two ever spar?" 

Felix pulled a face. "Scrap, more like. The boar was always perfectly proper when sparring with Glenn, but I thoroughly enjoyed wiping that regal look off his face by tripping him into the dirt."

Byleth smiled. "How chivalrous of you."

"He got more brutish over the years," said Felix in a clipped voice. "I was well within my rights."

"You don't seem to like him very much," said Byleth. "Even if he's your friend, by your admission."

"Friend by the slimmest definition." Felix ran a hand through his hair, expression cool. "He was completely insufferable after Duscur. Inconsolable. But he grew into a _fine young lad_ , according to every damn noble in Faerghus, so what I think is irrelevant." 

The bitterness in his voice made Byleth take pause. The way the others spoke of the crown prince, even in passing, made him seem perfectly that - someone suited to his regal role. And the Tragedy, both in books and more recent heresay, seemed little more than wholesale slaughter. That the prince could come out of it so intact seemed beyond a miracle. 

But Dimitri was squired to Felix's brother at the time. And if Glenn was with Dimitri in person during the Tragedy-

"Felix," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."

He shot her a sharp look. "I don't need your pity."

"No, I..." Byleth dug her fingers into the leathers of her jerkin, eyes glued to his. "I don't pity you. There's just... No one to hunt down, no way to find..."

 _Closure._ The word hung in the air between the two.

It seemed to ring loud and clear to Felix, though. "Does it matter? Knowing who did it won't bring him back," he said icily.

If the comment stung, it didn't show; Byleth simply gazed at him neutrally. The only indication was her grip growing a little tighter on the leather of her jerkin. 

Felix's shoulders, which had been tense and rigid, relaxed at the blank expression, the fight seeping out of him slowly. "Sorry," he muttered, shifting his gaze away, ears reddening.

A few beats of silence. Then, something soft pressed against his hand, feather-light. When he didn't flinch away, Byleth slid her hand a bit more securely around his and squeezed. 

He swallowed, chancing a glance at her, and hesitantly squeezed back.

"You're not wrong," she said, finally. 

"It was uncalled for." 

"Yeah, it was," Byleth agreed. "But I shouldn't have pushed the subject."

Felix looked down, where their fingers were now intertwined, and then back up to Byleth's face, his eyes glassy. "I'm not trying to hide any of this from you," he insisted, voice rough. "It's just..." He waved his free hand.

"Hard," she finished.

He nodded with a grunt.

She smiled, then, a gentle one. "Maybe we can have a pow-wow about our issues later. Perhaps when we're not in a crumbling ruin and surrounded by mold?"

"Yeah," Felix said, cracking the smallest smile in return. "Maybe."

She gave him one last squeeze, before releasing his hand.

Without distraction, catching up to the others didn't take long, made easy to follow by the faint, hushed sounds of hisses and bickering. It was fortunate that they hadn't encountered any resistance during the climb, Byleth thought grimly, or they would be a dead giveaway. Things only quieted once Felix snapped at both Ingrid and Sylvain, both of whom wore forlorn expressions. Whatever they had discussed had Ingrid a little more withdrawn, Sylvain a little more glum.

But there was a marked shift as they edged towards the top of the tower - a metallic tang to the air that seemed to thicken as they climbed that strengthened with each flight. Almost unnoticeable at first, until it started giving Byleth a slow-building pressure headache that pinched at her sinuses. 

Glancing at Annette and Mercedes, Byleth realized she wasn't alone; both of their faces were scrunched, teeth gritted. Even Felix's face looked a little pained.

"What," said Byleth, her voice strained, "is this?"

Mercedes fumbled at her waist for her staff. "Reason. Too much of it, pooled in one place. What in the Goddess' name could Miklan possibly be doing up there?"

Felix, Sylvain, and Ingrid shot each other confused looks. 

"Miklan doesn't know any Reason spells," said Sylvain. "Nor should most of his hired hands."

"Well whoever else he's working with does," said Annette, massaging her temples. "Good Goddess! I hope it's not more of those mages."

"I think that might be considered a jinx," said Byleth, smiling weakly.

Annette let out a tiny _meep_ and clapped two hands over her mouth. Mercedes patted her shoulder.

They were all sufficiently winded by the time they reached the very top of the staircase, where stood a large, ornate wooden door beneath stone arches. 

Sylvain let out a relieved whistle between his labored pants. 

Ashe, trailing just behind Annette and Mercedes and wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his gloved hand, peered at the door. "That's a warded lock. Let me have at it, Sylvain."

"Be my guest," Sylvain said, gesturing to the lock with a flourish.

"I've always wanted to learn how to pick locks," said Byleth, leaning over to look past Sylvain, curiosity piqued. It wasn't a skill Jeralt had deemed worth teaching, considering the only locked-away treasures for her to break into were _his_.

Ashe beamed, clearly pleased at the attention, and gestured her to his side; she squatted next to him, arms hugging her knees. He drew at a pouch at his belt, taking out a small leather case and flicking it open with a deft thumb to reveal an array of slender metal tools with various curves and grooves. 

Byleth whistled appreciatively, and he blushed. "You don't necessarily have to use anything this elaborate. I mean, I learned using hair pins. For simple locks, that's all you need," he said.

"Do you just... Stick it in the lock and wiggle it around?"

Ashe laughed. "That might work for really simple locks. But understanding the mechanism will save you a lot of time." He tapped a bent piece of metal. "The lock is usually kept shut with a simple lever, so wriggling a pick around until you luck out is fine for the easy ones, but complicated ones require a bit more... finesse."

"Is this a complicated lock?" asked Byleth, tapping on the metal. "Rather, wouldn't it be rusted enough to just break open? Couldn't Annette literally burn through it?"

"If you didn't mind the commotion, we probably could, if it were normal. But this lock is _literally_ warded. Look." He traced a finger over several etched lines on it, which were glowing a very faint white. "This isn't so old that it's from here, either. They must have brought it. We can't magick it off, so we have to break the old-fashioned way."

"Good thing we have a master of the trade then," said Byleth, leaning her cheek on one palm as she watched him insert a slim piece of metal into the hole beneath the lock. "Where did you learn? Doesn't seem like nobility would condone such studies."

Ashe bit his lip as he carefully inserted one of the curved picks, ear pressed close to the lock. "This was before I was adopted. Most street urchins just learn by doing, out of survival."

"Even the complicated locks?"

"At that point, it was more professional curiosity," Ashe said sheepishly, coaxing a laugh from her. "I don't think Gaspard particularly approves, but a skill is a skill, right?"

"You've got nothing but respect from me," commented Byleth, to which Ashe blushed again. "Think you could teach me sometime?"

"Um, sure," said Ashe, shooting her a curious look. "You're a merc though, no? I'm surprised you never-"

"Not to interrupt," cut in Felix impatiently, his expression tight, "but can the lesson wait until _after_ we smack Miklan upside the head?"

"I've almost got it," said Ashe, squinting as he adjusted his grip, lifting the pick delicately; with a small _click_ , the lock opened. "Done."

"Bravo," complimented Byleth. Ashe grinned.

The chipper mood didn't last; as the door swung open, what felt like thick wall of Reason hit the group all at once, the heat and weight of it almost palpable. 

"Whoa," said Annette.

Mercedes' jaw clenched.

But to Byleth, it _burned_. There was no name for the sensation she could recognize, no way to describe it, perhaps only comparable to the rot and miasma of her earlier injury. It made her skin crawl, her breath hitch, her eyes water. 

She could feel a sense of panic manifesting in the back of her mind not her own, could practically hear the high-pitched yelp.

"I'm okay," she muttered quickly, under her breath, so the others wouldn't hear her.

The panic subsided slightly, receding into concern.

"Byleth." Felix was watching her with an expression matching the one stirring in her head.

"I'm okay," she said louder, hoping that would be enough to will it into truth. 

The summit of the arduous climb was almost disappointingly bare, more stone floors and walls guiding them down wide halls, with only torchlight to illuminate their way, but it wasn't long until they heard low growls and mutters, drawing nearer with each round of a corner. 

Perhaps they hadn't sounded the alarm after all when they didn't seem to be on high alert. Sylvain traded his great axe for a smaller hand axe strapped to his waist and mouthed something to Felix, who nodded, crouching low by the corner of the wall.

It must have been a practiced maneuver of theirs - no surprise that the two were a well-oiled machine after so many years. Sylvain twirled the hand axe with ease, before stepping into view of the figures and letting it fly; the unmistakable sound of it hitting its target resounded, followed by furious howls, and he wasted no time switching and brandishing his larger weapon, expression taunting and smug.

Two brigands came into view, their own axes clashing with his in a spark of steel and iron, and only then did Felix lunge in a flash of movement, blade smoothly sliding low to the ground and, judging by the unnatural jerk of their legs, severing several tendons.

They collapsed one by one in sequence to the ground from the precise injuries with twin groans.

Mercedes stepped forward, brandishing her staff. "I can heal you. For a price."

One of the men spit at her feet.

"Wrong answer. Or no answer, rather, which is still wrong," said Annette, snapping her finger; electricity crackled in the space between them, visible static.

The man blanched, but didn't make to move or speak, raising his chin in defiance.

"Wait," said the other, weakly, torso leaning heavily against the stone wall, his hand clutching his foot where he was still bleeding freely. His face was pallid. "Wait. What- what's the price."

The first man snarled. "You fucking traitor-"

"Fuck _you_! I didn't sign up for this goddamn shit when I joined up, all these creepy-ass mages lurkin' around-"

Lightning struck between the two, charring the stone black.

"Let's start there," said Mercedes, kneeling a short distance away from the second man, her expression almost sympathetic. "Those mages aren't part of your group?"

"No. No, they- they were waiting here, for Miklan and the rest of us. I think he called them here. I don't know." The man licked his dried, cracked lips. "We been workin' jobs for Miklan for years now. Side-gigs for him. But never with them."

Felix's eyes flashed. "I fucking knew it, I knew he was doing grifts on the side. I told you-"

"I know," cut in Sylvain, running a hand over his face with a mournful expression. "I know. I thought- well." He laughed shortly. "It doesn't matter what I thought."

Byleth glanced at him in concern, and then Felix, giving the latter a meaningful look. Felix shook his head.

Mercedes didn't turn her focus anywhere but the brigand, his breathing now shallow, fearful, but her voice remained gentle. "The mages. Why are they helping Miklan?"

"Dunno. Miklan said they were good manpower? But I've seen the weird shit they can do. Ain't normal."

"And where is he?" Mercedes asked.

"Holed up at the top, king of the fuckin' hill."

"Figures," muttered Felix.

Byleth opened her mouth, still caught on the _weird shit_ part, but Sylvain interrupted before she could quite begin. "Why did he go for the Lance?"

"Sylvain," started Ingrid, expression pained.

The man's eyes flickered to him. "His brother, right? Figured, got the same hair and that pretty boy look he hates. Well, it's 'cause of you."

" _Me_?"

"Somethin' about negotiating with your pops. Said if he had the family treasures, they'd change their tune 'bout the heir business."

Sylvain's brows furrowed. "Family treasures, plural? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Abruptly, Felix cussed.

"Felix?" said Byleth, alarmed.

"We shouldn't have fucking come here. Sylvain, _you_ shouldn't have come here."

"What are you-"

"Two things important to the Gautiers." He held up one finger. "One. The Lance. Two..." Felix flicked up another, and pointed them both at Sylvain.

Sylvain's face fell. "He... He wanted me here. He wanted us as-"

"Hostages," said the brigand.

Silence for a beat. And the pieces fell together, almost agonizingly slow. How unmanned the tower had been, how simple it had been to infiltrate with little resistance. Byleth cursed under her breath, cursed her naiveté not an hour prior. How _thrilling_ it had been, when they seemed to be carving their path through the fortress with such ease. 

Of course he expected his brother to swoop in, as always. Of _course_ it was a trap. Felix had _told_ her in no uncertain terms that he wasn't stupid, that he was cunning and capable, but she let her secondhand dislike of him cloud her judgment. How much more of a rookie could she _be_? 

"What else were we supposed to do?" said a quiet voice from behind them.

Byleth looked to where Ingrid was still standing a few paces back, face hidden by her short curtain of hair as she stared at the ground.

"Ingrid," started Sylvain, as he took a hesitant step towards her.

"What else was any of us supposed to do?" she repeated, and then she looked up, revealing watery, furious eyes. Her voice was as severe as ever. "We couldn't just sit back and let him rob his family blind! He wrapped up so many people in this stupid, _selfish_ , convoluted-"

"Ingrid-"

"And he _banked_ on us coming, on Sylvain sticking his neck out _again_ when he's a hair's breadth from losing his family, too! All for Miklan!" Rage contorted her features, hands balled into fists. "And I am _not_ going to let that happen because of Miklan's delusions-"

Sylvain crossed the steps separating them to pull her into a rough hug, which she seemed to accept with surprising grace in defeat; the anger leeched out of her slowly as he murmured something low, eventually giving way to shuddering breaths.

"No one said we would," interjected Felix, eyes shifting away from the two. "Miklan routinely underestimates us. That'll be his downfall." 

"I'm sorry, Ingrid," Byleth added quietly. "I should have predicted this."

"How could you?" The blonde pulled back from Sylvain, who still hovered helplessly; she rubbed at her nose. "You don't know Miklan, who he is. This isn't your fault."

"Well, no, but... The fact that we weren't pursued after breaking in should have tipped me off."

A cough sounded; as though breaking a spell, all eyes snapped to the man still curled up on the floor.

"Y'all planning on keeping your word?"

Mercedes pursed her lips and nodded. 

Seconds later, the man's leg was fully intact, though still obviously sore and tender, as he settled more firmly against the wall with a sigh of relief. "Oh, and that bit 'bout not being pursued?" 

The man jerked his head down the hall pointedly. 

Footsteps and shouts. Distant, echoing up the spiral of the staircase, but audible. 

"You _are._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> felix, covered in dirt, thinking about his brother: this tower fucking sucks  
> byleth's 3 brain cells doing multiple equations at once: is this a romantic moment 👁👄👁
> 
> I didn't actually expect to write any Sylvain/Ingrid. You can view their interactions as entirely platonic, if you like! 
> 
> As it turns out, I'm going to have more downtime for shifts this coming month, so maybe I won't take forever for the next chapter, ha ha haaaaa


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi how y'all doing 👁👄👁

In the eyes of Fodlan, their continent was the epicenter of the world around which the other nations coalesced and revolved. Were a local artist to paint the earth, the Three Great Nations stood out as the foreground, sharp and distinct; Sreng, Duscur, Almyra, all of them would be illustrated with the same broad brush strokes, blurred colors and smudged lines, providing definition with none of their own.

Logically, it wasn't. Dagda's continent was so vast cartographers theorized it to dwarf Fodlan entirely, so diverse that limited Adrestian accounts of it varied depending on the scholar; ranging from frozen wastelands, cold enough to freeze weeds bursting frail and spindly through the earth, to lush wetlands, heavy with steam and flora and air thick enough to choke. Nomads and merchants who crossed the rocky seas to the Empire's port towns carried wares made from rare materials yet undiscovered in Fodlan - metals that shimmered in kaleidoscopes of color depending on the light of day, clay ornaments made from crimson-tinged dirt, nets woven with fibers so strong a blade couldn't cut.

Logically, the gods in Brigid far outnumbered the goddess of Fodlan. Sothis was light and love and beauty, all things pure and good; the deities of Brigid split the virtues among them. Putting full stock in any single god was akin to asking a farmer to forge a sword, a mason to mend cloth, a baker to pan for gold. There is a tool for every task, and a god to pray to for every need.

And Sreng, for all its depictions as an arid wasteland of brutish and bloodied warrior clans, had ceded half its territory to Faerghus over the years. The start of every conflict had them pushing in on Gautier lands to capture comparatively fertile ground, and Gautier men, well-trained to receive them, pushed back twice as hard. The more their borders blended into Fodlan's with each annexation, the more their culture bled into the continent. Faerghan soldiers from the northern reaches were said to be hardier and better suited to close combat than those hailing from the south. Sylvain, cleaving his greataxe through an enemy with a heavy swing, certainly looked every bit the part the sort of warrior his family waged against.

These robed men were not from Fodlan, yet shared none of the characteristics of the outer nations. Sporting pale, drawn faces unkissed by the sun, their blood blackened to tar hissed where it splattered the floor and walls. 

The group could dispatch about half of them with each encounter, the rest of their gaunt figures dissipating in a haze of purple miasma. Every few steps they took seemed to draw more out, like moths to a flame. The footsteps of Miklan's soldiers were easy enough to detect, but these mages seemed to flit in and out of existence, wrapped within the shadows winking with the flicker of candle flames and evading the light.

"We don't have time for this," Felix said darkly, not even bothering to wipe the blood from his blade. "He's trying to slow us down, keep us at bay until the Margrave makes an offer."

"My father won't _make_ an offer," Sylvain retorted. "Miklan's off his rocks."

"He was going to, Sylvain," Ingrid said, her stare heavy. 

"Just not with terms Miklan will find agreeable," added Felix.

Byleth flicked the end of her rapier, droplets of blood, sickly dark, specking the floor. 

Felix was right - unable to escape, but incapable of reaching their goal. "We have to get to the source," she said. "To Miklan, quickly. But we can't keep getting bogged down by his reinforcements. We need to-"

"-split up."

The words, surprisingly, came from Mercedes, who had been silent and withdrawn since the initial swarm. When Byleth turned to meet her gaze, however, her soft periwinkle eyes had hardened to ice.

Annette frowned. "Mercie, it's too dangerous."

Mercedes levelled a gaze at her. "It's dangerous wherever we go, Annie. But I believe we are the best equipped to handle their kind."

Annette's face contorted at that, bouncing between several emotions in the span of seconds - confusion, shock, and then understanding - before settling into a grimace. 

"I'll back you both up," said Ashe, pulling an arrow from one of the corpses littering the ground with a grunt. "That's what I'm here for in the first place." 

"You have no melee fighters," said Ingrid, a half-hearted protest. "I can-"

Mercedes raised a hand - a clear sign that she brokered no concessions. "I believe you will need all the manpower you can get for Miklan." Her eyes flickered back to Byleth. "Something tells me he won't go down easily. Please be careful, all of you."

"It won't be easy to hold the line," said Sylvain, unhooking a small sheathed dagger from his waist. He tossed it to Ashe, who caught it without losing a beat. "They might catch you in close quarters. You know your way around one of these, don't you?"

"Dirks are an extension of a thief's arm," said Ashe wryly, twirling the weapon between his fingers idly before hooking it on his belt. "I'm not so reformed that I've forgotten."

"Wow. Be thankful I won't tell on you to Gaspard, Ubert."

"Ha. As if he doesn't already know."

"Mercedes," said Byleth, voice wavering.

The young woman, who had been rubbing a smear of blood off her staff with a handkerchief, blinked and turned to meet Byleth's gaze.

Byleth swallowed. "I expect to see you all safe, when this is over. You still have to show me that fishing pond in Garreg Mach."

The solemn look on Mercedes' face fractured then - a small, gentle smile seeping through. "I certainly look forward to it."

"Don't worry about us," added Annette, wiggling her fingers; flares of light burst from her fingertips. "Ashe and I are masters with projectiles, they won't get near us. We'll probably even catch up in time for me to set Miklan's hair on fire-"

"Annie!"

"What? Don't tell me he doesn't _deserve_ it, Mercie. No offense, Sylvain."

Sylvain grimaced. "I'd do it myself, if I had studied Reason properly."

There came a distant echo of clanking metal and muffled shouts.

The three sobered accordingly. With a sharp nod, Mercedes lead the other two to backtrack down the hall, the silks of her dress fluttering with a flurry of footsteps.  
  


Even as the sounds of them faded, Byleth stood, stricken, until they disappeared from view. She had hardly known these people for a day, barely even acquaintances, but an unexpected protectiveness seemed to burst from her ribcage, licking at her tightening throat.

_Storming the fields outside Zanado, whispered goodbyes-_

A warm hand rested on her shoulder, and she turned to see Ingrid donning a reassuring smile. "There's a reason Mercedes is trusted by the Archbishop to handle affairs like this. They'll be fine, Byleth. "

She bit her lip and turned away, messy curtain of hair swinging forward to hide her blurring eyes. "I hope so."

"C'mon," said Sylvain, jerking his head towards the far end of the hall. "Judging by the increased fire power - literally - I have a feeling we're getting close."

And so they were. A few more corner turns and several more flights of stairs led them to a wide, raised platform with gilded, ornate doors that practically _screamed_ finality.

  
  


Pulse hammering, Byleth got the sense that whatever was behind them had been waiting for their arrival. She could no longer ascertain whether the heaviness that bore down on her harder with each step was a matter of the thick pool of Reason, coalescing at the source, or her own psyche. 

It seemed Felix was somewhat sensitive to it - perhaps he had poured some time into the Reason lessons Sylvain had declined. Teeth gritted, he gripped the hilt of his broadsword a little tighter and shot her a wary look, as if to ask, _Do you feel that too?_ Byleth could only offer the slightest of nods back, her mind a fast-swirling whirlpool of pressure and panic, only half of which was her own.

Sylvain hovered a hand over the doors hesitantly; then, determination settled into his frame and gaze steeling for cold confrontation, he squared his shoulders and pushed.

The door slowly creaked open.

Thunder crackled in the distance, audible through the crumbled gaps of the room where the sky, darkened indigo and silver with rain clouds, was visible. Dust motes danced in the air, disturbed by the intrusion, settling on ancient stone, and only slivers of moonbeams and flashes of thunder illuminated the room in brief, blinding bursts.

Two reddened eyes, glowing harsh in the darkness, stared back at them.

  
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  


_Wood from the hearth split, embers danced where the charred logs settled. It was a gentle heat as the eve wore on, gentler still compared to the downpour that pounded the windows from the outside._

_The crackle of the fire, the sheets of rain hitting the glass panes, were steady, incessant. Punctuating them were the occasional turnings of a page and the scrape of stone against metal._

_"Too dark to read that much, kiddo."_

_"I can see fine."_

_"And you'll see a little less fine tomorrow. C'mon, put that down."_

_"All these stories say that humans are the real monsters, you know," chirped Byleth pointedly, unceremoniously tossing the book she had finished to her side with a loud_ thump _. "People just don't wanna think of themselves as the villains, so they make up scary beasts instead to make themselves feel better, y’know?"_

_Her father, who had been sharpening his rapier by the fire, let out a snort._

_Byleth's face fell. She had thought the observation profound, herself._

_"No- By, I'm not laughing at you," Jeralt said, lowering the sword slightly. "There are some nasty folks out there, it's true."_

_The little girl's eyes narrowed to slits. "Then why'd you laugh?"_

_"Because it's not about one or the other." He ran his whetstone over the blade again. "Sometimes they really are one in the same."_

_"That's what I'm saying! Just 'cause they don't have scales and fangs-"_

_"By," he said, setting the rapier aside and gesturing her over with a wave of his hand._

_Byleth hopped off the chair from which her feet barely skimmed the tiled floor, and sauntered over, still wary. But she broke when he patted his lap invitingly, grin matching his, and leaped towards him with a squeal._

_Jeralt caught her without missing a beat, swinging her around and resting her comfortably on his leg with a chuckle._

_"The monsters, they're real. I've seen them." The deep sound of his voice rumbled through his chest to where she leaned against him._

_Byleth craned her neck back to meet his gaze, dark eyebrows furrowed. "I thought they didn't exist. Anymore, at least."_

_Jeralt hummed. "There's a story, you know, of beasts deep in Leicester. Big scary ones, with sharp pointy teeth - don't give me that look, I'm dead serious - and I passed through that area during a contract. Some fancy lord there kept losing soldiers patrolling the perimeter, and needed mercs to scout and find out whatever it was that was causing the disappearances. So we suited up and searched. It took days. I mean, look at me. Do I seem suited for stealth work?"_

_"I hear you coming through the cave all the way from my room."_

_"Exactly."_

_"And see you."_

_"Sure."_

_"And smell-"_

_"Watch it."_

_"-the yummy food you bring from the city."_

_Jeralt ruffled her hair. "Nice save."_

_"So?" she asked excitedly. "Who did it?"_

_Jeralt smiled. "I have to say it's a little concerning that no spooky story can scare you, kiddo. We didn't find out who did it, exactly - we uncovered a large cave hidden not even a kilometer into the forest. Entrance was littered with bones, animal and human both. And when we set off to report it to the lord, I saw something deep in the brush, watching us as we left. A head made of black bone. Big body. Red eyes.”_

_“Oooh, spooky.”_

_“You’d need more than an ugly mug to scare your old man. The scariest part was that it had a crest mark on its head."_

_"_ That's _the scariest part?"_

_His smile tightened. "Scared me shitless."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because," he said, "it means that ages ago, that thing was once human, By."_

  
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


"What," said Sylvain, his whole body trembling as he raised a hand, "is this?"

Byleth followed the direction of his finger, to the snout of the creature, where the crest of Gautier was carved, stark and indented, into the bone.

"Sylvain," snarled Felix.

Caught off-guard, Sylvain stumbled along with Felix, who had thrown the full weight of his body against him. Together they tripped - barely out of the way of a swipe of extended claws, as the beast let out a shriek - before Sylvain landed soundly on his back, heavy armor hitting the floor with a clatter.

A whistle sounded, sharp and piercing.

A white pegasus slotted through the chunk of exposed wall with a panicked whinny; Ingrid promptly swung herself aloft, snapping the reins with one hand and brandishing her lance with the other, as if flipping a switch. "Come!" she shouted, eyes hard.

The beast seemed perfectly willing to oblige, shifting the heavy weight of its body to face her; it let out another piercing howl, sediment trembling as the grate of it bounced off the walls. 

Books hardly did it justice, and even Jeralt's description paled in comparison to the real thing. The beast stood nearly thrice the height of a human. Thick, gnarled limbs were covered in a patchwork-carapace of scaled hide and bone, nearly metallic in sturdiness judging by the way Ingrid's lance glanced off it with nary a scratch. Teeth protruded like thorns from a wide, gaping maw, spit pooling and steaming where it dripped onto the ground.

Byleth's hand tightened around her rapier, shifting stances while she paced around it in a half-circle. 

At the entrance of the chamber, Sylvain was still babbling. "That can't - that can't be him. This doesn't happen, it couldn't. The weapons can't do this anymore. They don't work, the church said so, they don't-"

"Pretty sure," snapped Felix, drawing his own sword, "that they fucking _do_ , Sylvain."

Sylvain wheeled on him furiously, mouth opening, but no words came. Then, sudden and desperate, "Felix, he wouldn't be this stupid. He wouldn't have tried to use it, not if he knew what it would do to him!"

"I don't think he knew either, but someone clearly _did_ -"

" _Move!_ "

Byleth's scream ricocheted off the walls. In their distraction, the monster had swung around fully to engage Ingrid, who was cutting tight circles around its head in flight punctuated by quick, measured lunges. But the tail of it was headed straight for the two men with deadly speed, spikes protruding and ready to skewer.

In a sudden flash of green, she was there. Her rapier rattling as she blocked the blow and bounced the tail diagonally to her right; the sound of it hitting steel resounded, high-pitched and reverberating.

Sylvain stared up at her, his face twisted in confusion and grief. "Byleth-"

"I know this is hard," she said, eyes glancing down at her blade, now chipped. "But that's not your brother anymore, Sylvain."

"I can't- he's-"

"I know." Her voice was emotionless, carefully smooth. "But there’s one thing you can do for him still." 

And then she was off in a blur of blue.

Felix stared down at his partner, gold eyes locking to brown, a silent communication. 

"I won't ask you to fight," Felix said, finally. "But this is no way to live. You know that."

"I need to know who did this to him, Fe."

"I have a feeling," said Felix, gaze snapping to the beast as he got to his feet, sword raised high and pacing after Byleth, "that we're going to find out." 

She was doing remarkably well, considering the creature was at least ten times her weight - packed hard muscle and sinew and nary a weak spot visible to the naked eye. 

She elected to stab into the crevices between segments of bone to slice through flesh, but her accuracy suffered with each ear-piercing roar and tremble. Every time her rapier glanced off the scaled hide, her blade chipped a little more. And with each bellow, the beast seemed to be gathering strength - the churning of flame and miasma bubbling and spilling from its mouth like bile, where the skin of it pulled taut against its jaw. 

"Ingrid," bellowed Felix, reaching his arm up. 

In a flash of shimmering white she was there, swooping low, her own arm outstretched. She gripped his wrist and lifted him with her as they ascended, her pegasus shedding silvery feathers with each beat of its great wings.

He dangled precariously, but his grip on her was firm. "The head!"

With a powerful jerk, Ingrid swung and released him with a cry. He cut through the air swiftly, sword arm angled back; then, landing on the snout, he dug the end of his blade deep into the center of the crest and twisted.

The beast shrieked, head jerking back and forth wildly, bucking against his weight. His boots dug into the bone's indentations, his grip on the hilt tight enough to chaff, as he clung stubbornly. 

Just a little further-

A claw came up to swipe at him. He tried to tug the blade out, but it was stuck tightly beneath the layers of bone and muscle, he couldn't pull it free.

"Felix, _jump_!"

He hardly second-guessed Byleth's command, relinquishing his grip with a curse and flipping deftly backwards, landing onto the ground into a kneel. 

Sure enough, the claw broke through his broadsword, splitting it in half - only a hair's breadth from doing the same to his spine. The hilt of it went flying and then clattering from the tower to the forests below, while the end of it was still lodged deep into the beast's forehead, cracks spreading around where it pierced the bone. 

Dazed, it stumbled - directly into a supporting column that crumbled from the weight, chunks of the ceiling coming down with it. Dust choked the air as sediment scattered.

Byleth was at his side, pulling him up firmly with one hand and shoving her rapier into his hand with the other. 

Felix stared at her, brows furrowed. "What are you-"

"You need it more than I do."

"Don't be stupid, you'll be defenseless."

"Don't argue. I've seen what happens when it lands a hit on you unarmed." She made a vague squashing gesture with her hands.

Felix opened his mouth to protest further.

"Miklan!"

A hand-axe cleaved a path through air, whistling past them; it struck precisely on the lodged end of Felix's blade, hammering it in deeper.

The bone fractured with fine cracks, chips of it flying from the impact. The beast screeched again, sitting on its haunches and scraping desperately at its snout with a clawed arm.

Sylvain stood with his great-axe hefted onto his shoulder, eyes trained on the beast. 

Felix got to his feet again. "Good of you to join us."

"Sorry for the wait." Sylvain swung the axe around to grip it with both hands, and surged forward with a cry.

It was all Byleth could do to play distraction. As the others circled the beast to land hits with the occasional tag-team blow, she was desperately grasping at her power - surging in and out of each second to weave a safe path, careful to keep tantalizingly within its eyesight. It was most certainly on its last legs, growing increasingly disoriented and inaccurate with its swipes.

Yet it showed no signs of lightening up. Contrarily, each hit only seemed to multiply in strength in its desperation. Where a claw met a pillar, it split in twain; where it met the ground, it left devastating, shattering cracks. Fire seemed to be building in its throat, embers escaping with each sharp pant and bellow.

If she could just keep it occupied long enough for the killing blow...

"Byleth, move!" 

But Ingrid's panicked shriek barely registered.

Because her rasping song, which had been spilling from her lips in a continuous hum, was suddenly no more than that.

_Sorry,_ a faint voice seemed to whisper in the back of her mind, strained and anguished.

Everything moved in real time, too _fast_. The beast's claw split through the air like a guillotine's blade, and it was all she could do to roll away in time for the ground to be smashed into rubble, gasping from the exertion.

It let out a deep, low growl, miasma overflowing from its maw, throat vibrating.  
  
Byleth blanched, hand blindly grasping for her belt where her rapier would have been sheathed in its scabbard. Its great body swung around - now deliberate - as its tail came speeding towards her in a low, perilous arc.

Without thinking, she drew the bone-white sword at her hip.

_CRACK._

A scream.

And the bloodied, severed tail hit the wall with a sickening _thump_. 

Felix lowered Byleth's rapier, Sylvain his axe, while Ingrid merely hovered mid-air, her mouth agape.

A fiery orange, as though it were tempered steel drawn fresh from a forge and not crafted from the bones of the dead, set the blade ablaze. It seemed to pulse with an ever-growing heat from the tip to the hilt, the joints of it realigning from where they had extended the relic into a flaming whip.

Byleth stared at her hand, gripped at her chest, where she _burned_.

She moved. Faster than before, lighter on her feet than she's ever been, fire pulsing in her veins, boiling her blood. The ease with which the blade sunk into the gnarled chest was like slotting a key into a lock, certain and sure. 

Byleth twisted the sword with a quick jerk of her arm.

A pained wheeze. The bubbling froth stuttered with a weak gurgle, red eyes rolling. She pulled the blade out and flipped back deftly to avoid the body as it crashed to the ground in a limp heap.

Byleth lowered the sword, her arm growing limp, and the glow of it faded back to cold alabaster. 

"Byleth," whispered Felix.

She turned to him, schooling her expression to deliberate blankness, but the fear in her eyes was unmistakable. 

The darkened scales of the beast's body suddenly seemed to disintegrate into the air, carapace crumbling to dust promptly swept away in the high winds whistling through the open ceiling of the tower. In the rubble of the corpse, barely visible, was a mottle of red hair.

"Miklan!" Sylvain abandoned his axe and scrambled to him, nearly tripping over his feet and climbing atop the debris to pull away chunks of gnarled remains. 

He hardly spared a glance to the Lance of Ruin, dislodging it from the heap and tossing it where it clattered against the floor and rolled away. He sunk to his knees and rolled the body over, fingers shaking as they unfastened the armor and flung it aside, and pressed an ear to the man's chest. 

Ingrid dismounted, taking slow, careful steps to the perimeter of the remains, her face pinched. "Sylvain..."

Sylvain heaved a shuddering breath, head still nestled against his brother. Then, suddenly, his head jerked up, hands shifting to press against his chest with quick, measured jerks. "If... If it's cardiac arrest, we can get his heart beating again-"

"Sylvain," said Felix.

"I can't let him die like this."

"No one has lived through a transformation, Sylvain!"

"He's a stubborn bastard, if anyone could it's him-"

"An optimistic view."

The cold, dry statement cut through the back-and-forth with unfamiliarity. Everyone save Sylvain immediately shifted back into battle stances, hands plastered onto the hilts of their weapons.

It would have been impossible to ascertain their presence in the inky shadows of the tower, cloaked in equally dark robes and armor black as the night; it slinked into view and drew back a feathered hood to reveal silvery hair glinting in the dim moonlight, framing a pallid, sour face.

  
  
Gooseflesh pebbled Byleth’s arms. Sunken skin around his eyes were smeared in jagged lines of ash, eyes seemingly rendered blind with cataracts - a stark, milky-white. 

It didn't seem to impede him, head angling to each of them one by one with slow deliberation, studying them individually. Finally, his gaze rested where Byleth stood, clutching the relic tightly in her grip, her knuckles white.

"Fell Star," he said, delighted.

"Did you do this?” came Sylvain’s faint whisper from behind them.

The man didn't look at him, still training his gaze on Byleth. "I did warn him of the dangers."

"Bullshit. _Bullshit._ He wouldn't have done it if he knew-"

"Would it surprise you," the man interrupted, the timbre of his voice low and silky-smooth, "to learn you are not privy to all your brother's thoughts and feelings? To the extent of his arrogance in thinking he could wield it without the stone?"

"Fuck you," said Felix. "You don't know shit."

"Vulgarity is unnecessary, but expected from your ilk."

"What's vulgar," said Byleth, voice low, "is tricking someone to do your dirty work for you. You wanted this to happen. You wanted the Lance for yourself."

The man flicked a finger to his side, curling it slowly. The Lance of Ruin snapped into the air and shot through it until it slotted into his grip. 

"I have no need for the bones of the children. That was the Gautier boy's ambition, which I helped him achieve in exchange for one far greater." 

Byleth stared to where his head was now tilted, down to her hand gripping the sword.

Oh.  
  
  
 _Oh._

"The bones of the Goddess," said the man. "But I didn't expect him to deliver the heart as well."

He raised the Lance of Ruin into the air, and from his hand burst a dark flame that engulfed it, pulverizing the bone to dust.

_No!_

The lone word lanced through her head, a piercing cry. It was as if she had been gut-punched - Byleth staggered backwards, breathless and clutching her temple where a muffled wail resounded, before it receded into hiccupping sobs. 

Her throat constricted. Tears sprung from her widened eyes, spilling over in thin rivulets, and the relic in her hand pulsed.

"There," said the man softly. "The death of your child twice over, Fell Star. Come."  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> byleth, handing her rapier over: ho don't do it  
> felix: *argues anyway*  
> byleth: oh my god
> 
> writing fight scenes is not my forte haha. haaaAAAA
> 
> i am most certainly still working on this. it's just extremely hard to be motivated in a pandemic when all you want is McDonalds, consume comforting content, eat hot chip and lie


End file.
